


Second Instar: By the Waters of the Merrimack

by ketherphorbia



Series: The Anatomy of Melancholy [2]
Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 3: Battle for Anchorage, Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Amputation Kink, Billerica MA, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Chelmsford MA, Corsetry, Defense Intelligence Agency, Disability, Disabled Character, Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Addiction, Drugging, Drugs, Eton Boat Song intensifies, Exophilia, F/F, F/M, Fictional Pharmacology, First Time Blow Jobs, Fisting, Food Squick, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Furriers, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Golfing, Ice Cream Parlors, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Insects, Introspection, Lowell MA, M/M, Man Out of Time, Medical Kink, Mutants, Nightmare Fuel, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Orgy, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postwar Self-Reinvention, Prewar Flashbacks, Questionable Chemist, Radiochemical Symphorophilia, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Robotics, Sanctuary Hills (Fallout 4), Sole Isn't Nate or Nora, Syringer Rifle, Teratophilia, The SCYTHE Program, Trans Male Character, Transitioning, Trappers, Unreliable memory, We're officially stepping off the canon map folks, Wet Nightmare, Working vehicle, but is it actually fisting if a fist isn't involved, dubcon, mutual dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 20:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 89,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30077814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketherphorbia/pseuds/ketherphorbia
Summary: Following the vague dread of one of Mama Murphy's visions, Melancholy makes a trip to Lowell to investigate the fate of the Deenwood Compound: the military base where General Constantine Chase contracted the development and manufacture of Psycho, the potent narcotic which tipped the scales of the Battle of Anchorage so the States could finally drive the Chinese out of Alaska. But upon arriving, every calculation falls together... and apart.
Relationships: Alan Carey | Melancholy (OC)/Bones (OC), Alan Carey | Melancholy (OC)/Sticks (OC), Male Sole Survivor & Mister Handy, Male Sole Survivor/Ghoul Character(s)
Series: The Anatomy of Melancholy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2212965





	1. Man's Accidents Are God's Purposes (Ch34)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Choly worries too much.
> 
> A/N: Have a placeholder B/W wip of the Second Instar cover art, too. Yolo.

Melancholy rode Angel past a sign which indicated ‘turn left now to visit Jonathan Emery Historical Site,’ and continued down Route 62 East through Concord. His mind wandered a bit, and he decided that, at least for the time being, donning the vault suit wasn’t so bad. Now that he had found new foundation-wear in the form of the surgical corset, the bodysuit fit acceptably, and contrary to the Vault-Tec staff’s insistence, wearing anything underneath it didn’t seem to have impeded the effects of its technologically advanced lining. He could appreciate its efficient thermal regulation, and also its dry-wicking technology. It seemed to sync up with his Pip-Boy as well somehow, though beyond introducing an additional icon on his health screen, he couldn’t discern how at a glance it even mattered. Of course, he still wore the belt from his dress military uniform so that he could utilize the suspender cases which held his then limited stock of syringer ammunition, as well as his white Pharm Corps coat. To make himself less visible at a distance, he figured the coat would dull out the bright royal blue of the vault suit, and the belt and bracers would dull out the rich gold edging along the bodysuit’s zipper and collar.

His canvas ankle braces didn’t fit inside the short boots that Vault-Tec had provided as footwear with the vault suit, so he stored the boots in Angel’s compartment and continued on with the oxfords from his dress uniform.

Following the road around the perimeter of a quarry property, the route switched to North Road Route 4, and from there it only took a matter of minutes before they finally came upon the junkyard ‘Choly sought. They entered the open double hurricane fence gates, and ‘Choly surveyed the yard with the impression it had been heavily looted in recent years, but knew better than to trust his eyes. The only visible salvage at a glance seemed to be car bodies stacked as many as five high, but he could tell robotics parts lay scattered here as well. Without going up to the piles, he couldn’t tell what robots they’d once belonged to. He dismounted from Angel and kept his syringer rifle at the ready, in case they happened upon any unwelcoming occupants in the office at the South corner of the property.

“Before we get to work, I think we should stop for lunch first.” He opened the metal door with its reinforced glass window, and skimmed the room with his weapon before dropping it.“Guess it’s just you and me as usual.”

“I can appreciate that,” Angel replied, following him inside.“You’ve only the one Melancholia left. What should I fetch you from my stores?”

“You could put on a pot of coffee, and fish out a sweet roll and the deviled eggs.”

“As you wish! Sounds like we’re here for the day. Forgive me for asking something likely quite obtuse, but Sir...What are we doing at the robotics disposal ground?”

“Making use of the facilities to repair you.” The chemist slung his rifle onto his back and pulled up a folding metal chair, sitting at the operational terminal to poke around.“And upgrade you, if you’ll allow it. We can stay here a day or two I think, before rations make it more urgent to keep moving. Getting you freshened up is my top priority today.”

“Beyond refilling my Handy Fuel tank, and reaffixing my laser attachment, I can’t possibly imagine what upgrades you’ve in mind.” It filled the percolator with canned water and measured out the coffee grounds.“There’s only so many different features that General Atomics offered for the Mister Handy line.”

“If you’ll recall, one of your tendrils is a Miss Nanny's, actually. Looking back on it, I’m surprised the DIA let me put in any sort of custom order for receiving you. All kinds of robots got discarded here. Maybe we can find a Mister Gutsy or two, to get you some hardier shell plating. I’m sure there’s some paint laying around, so that you don’t look quite so cobbled together after we’re done.” He looked up from the log entry for what all had been disposed of there between June and October 2077.“This place was a robotics graveyard on the surface. Most of its clients just wanted a place to dump broken or defective robots on the cheap, no questions asked. But the owner made good money by also offering salvage scrap as well as repairs. There’s good equipment here. I was taking a chance, coming out here without knowing for sure, but it looks like it’s survived in tact, unrusted, here in the office space. --Hm. _What’s a Robobrain?_ ”

“It doesn’t sound like anything General Atomics might have created... Perhaps it’s a RobCo product?”

“That’s my thought. I’m not nearly as versed with RobCo technologies as I am with G.A.” His head drooped over the terminal keyboard. “You wouldn’t dislike it if we mixed components between Nanny and Gutsy parts for you, would you? My priority is maximizing your hydraulics, to make it as easy as possible for you to carry me. I... I feel bad that you have to.”

“Mister Carey, it’s company-approved to combine any of the parts families you listed. As long as we don’t void my warranty, I want to optimize my performance any way you see fit. Until we find a better option to increase your mobility while out and about in the Commonwealth, you can count on me to provide that service. It’s not your fault that the apocalypse so direly ruined accessibility across the state.”

“You’re sure you’re all right with it? You’re not just a wheelchair. You’re an artificial intelligence.” For a moment, the Handy only replied by handing him a melamine plate with a sweet roll and two egg halves on it, and a ceramic mug of coffee. It observed him as he took these from it, and he ate one-handed with the plate in his lap.“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure to see you continuing to function and excel, Sir. My behavioral matrices thrive when my owner thrives. Emotionally, physically, financially. ... _Spiritually_...” It let out a reserved holographic chuckle, then fell quiet.“Did you mean it, that we’re headed up to Chelmsford after this?”

With the question, suddenly the entendred use of the word _excel_ didn’t sound accidental. Yet, Angel hadn’t been there when he’d spoken to Missus Murphy. It couldn’t have possibly known. He set down his coffee and glasses and screwed up his face with both hands.

“I have to go to the base. I have to know what I was supposed to be working on when they sent me that letter calling me back to active duty. If they meant for me to cook more Psycho for another war, it’ll put my mind and soul at ease, knowing the nuclear exchange prevented any need for military-size shipments of the stuff. In hindsight, I suppose the fact they called me back to active duty two weeks before the bombs fell is all the proof I need that the government had advanced paranoia that something was wrong. I... I wonder if they knew what was imminent, but didn’t know how to stop it in time...?”

“Oh, Sir. That’s not a constructive mental track to get on. It doesn’t change what’s transpired since. If going to the Deenwood Compound will provide you some manner of closure, then we shall do so. But you cannot keep dwelling on a course of events over which you had no control. You have so much more control now than you ever did.”

“That’s part of the problem. Who the hell died and gave me self-agency?” He swallowed half of one of the egg halves and choked a bit, having forgotten to chew it enough. He washed down the musky, salty protein with black coffee and sat a moment to recollect himself.“I’ve made very few decisions in my life on my own behalf. And I feel like every decision I’ve made since I came back into the world has been poor.”

“Ah yes. This misguided worry again. We’re here to repair me,” it offered, topping off the mug.“I know you care about my well-being just as much as your own. It’s just that your needs have been a little more... time-sensitive, shall we say? Things will work out in the end. Just like with the wonderful people who settled into Sanctuary. They couldn’t have gotten there without us. Without you.”

“I’ve gone too long without giving you maintenance. In my own defense, I didn’t have access to the materials I needed to do true repairs and calibration. You really think they’ll be all right?”

“I’m more worried about you doing well, especially with us headed up to the Lowell area. Are you certain it’s wise? You don’t handle memory of your military career very well.”

“You’re here with me. And it’s not like Johnston will be there to put me right back to work. Besides, wouldn’t you like to figure out how Jared knew X-Cell was a Deenwood product?”

“There’s little greater meaning my programming could find, I could imagine. I’m positive that the DIA would love to nip that leak in the bud.”

‘Choly almost reminded it that the DIA likely no longer existed, but he still wasn’t completely sure. He didn’t say so, but he hoped to measure his speculation of the continued existence of the DIA, going by how Angel would react to his navigation of the military base. It ate at him, not knowing for certain whether all his behavior had not only been transmitted to some DIA outpost, but also observed by someone still surviving to this day--whether he’d eventually see consequences to his actions in Lexington. He balked into laughter and quietened himself with part of his sweet roll.

“Was it something I said?”

“It’s nothing. I just realized that the concept of having to answer for misdeeds, and the fact we’re operating on faith alone that the DIA still exists... It’s like with the Christians, and the belief that if they sin, they have to go to hell. Like they have to be held accountable by a higher power, in order to behave. A ridiculous comparison, I know, and without tact or nuance. The DIA is simply... an intangible source of authority that has not yet stepped in and punished me. Or maybe it has. I don’t know. I suppose I’ve sought accountability from others all along, to validate whether I’ve made the right choices in life.”

“Need I remind you that the Defense Intelligence Agency has offices at the Deenwood Compound. You might find those answers there as well.”

“Something in me doesn’t want to know for certain whether it exists. But you’re right, that I might.” He finished off his food and nursed on his coffee while he continued reading the terminal.“There’s something here about a Sentry Bot. Warnings not to let the temptation get the best of you, and to not under any circumstances power it on. It was dumped by government personnel, it seems. Wonder what the fuss is.”

“A shame it’s a RobCo product, isn’t it, Sir? Even if it’s survived in tact, its parts wouldn’t be compatible with a robot in the Mister Handy line.”

“They were hulking things. They had to carry the weight of a tank on their treads, with how heavy their armor was. It’d be a dream, it it were possible to harvest the hydraulics from their wheel-treads.” He glanced to the holotape on the desk, and pretended he didn’t see it was labeled ‘ _Combat Sentry Proto MK IV_.’“It’s probably impossible, though, since mecanum mobility is a completely different mechanism than hover-thrusters. We should focus on locating Handy, Nanny, and Gutsy parts. I never said I was a genius with this stuff, so going wild is probably outside both my knowledge and skill set. Even if it were doable.”

“Just don’t overdo it, Sir. It’s all right to only do what you can manage. Even the most minor of adjustments will facilitate my facilitating you. I’m entirely content with an algorithm scan, a tank refill, and my laser repaired... and if you do feel so inclined, perhaps a bit of fresh polish.”

“First, let’s see what we can put our hands on out there.” He pocketed the holotape surreptitiously, and slung his syringer rifle onto his back while he pulled his cane from his belt. With his free hand, he brought his coffee with him. “That way, we’ll know what we’re working with.”


	2. Throne by Virtue (Ch35)

So the chemist and his Mister Handy surveyed the junkyard for viable robotics specimens. Angel separated at times from its owner, to return and report back its findings, while ‘Choly annotated everything useful they located. Seven Mister Gutsies, five Mister Handies, and one Miss Nanny had been left here lacking well over half their parts. Dozens of heavily damaged Eyebots and Protectrons joined the General Atomics robotics scrap among the landscape of car shells which had hidden the true nature of the junkyard from street view. Though not G.A. in origin either, ‘Choly found an Assaultron head and flinched away from the skull-like cyclopean structure, only to stumble and nearly drop his coffee cup. Upon righting himself with his cane and catching his breath, he took a sip of his coffee, and his gaze absently drifted up to the wall of automotive carcasses. He’d located the prototype Sentry Bot, wedged among the rusted sheet steel stacked high to either side of it as though a child playing hide and seek in a stack of firewood.

He sputtered, choking on his drink. It had been two hundred years since he’d last seen one. Despite the base’s heavily classified security status, the Deenwood Compound relied heavily upon Mister Handy and Mister Gutsy accommodations, and only had three Sentries at their employ. True to his memory, the thing before him was, in essence, a sentient tank. A heavy tripod of mecanum limbs supported its hulking dark green body, its ocular sensor matrix was encased in a helmet-like dome recessed for the most part into its chest component, and its thick, broad arms terminated in a pair of miniguns. A mixture of relief and disappointment came when he recognized that it did not have mortar launchers in its shoulder components like those they had on base, and he found himself wondering which was the more advanced model. From the sound of the documentation on the terminal in the junkyard’s office, it had only been dumped here mere years before the nuclear exchange took place, so Deenwood’s Sentries in theory predated this one.

“Mister Carey, I believe we’ve identified the majority of resources on site, if you’d like to get started.” Angel paused beside its owner and looked where ‘Choly did. “I see!”

“From what I can tell, it’s a complete robot,” ‘Choly told it, vaguely nagged by his compulsions. “If it’s still got its Fusion Cores, it could be powered up...”

“Oh, but we shan’t be doing that. It’s forbidden by military protocols, and it’s RobCo tech besides.”

“...You’re right.” ‘Choly stared at his dress shoes a moment before looking to his Handy in earnest. “I know that I’ve made a promise to you, and that’s why I’m asking and not... pretty literally... going behind your back. Can I have _one_ Berry Mentat for this task? I understand the way that Gutsy and Nanny parts can interface with those of a Handy, but I want to make this more than just a parts swap-out. I want to optimize what each component can provide you.”

“I imagined that your sobriety wouldn’t last long,” it resigned, to which its owner winced sheepishly. “Can we at least come to an arrangement, then, Sir? I shall dispense as requested, but you must keep your entire chem stock in my storage. If it’s too much to ask, for you to put me in charge of monitoring your chem usage, then I’m afraid I’ll have to decline the request.”

‘Choly smiled and put a hand to Angel’s pale blue spherical body.

“You drive a very hard, but very far, bargain. Let’s go inside, so I can sit while I strategize how to approach the upgrade.”

“Thank you for being reasonable.”

Once inside, Angel dispensed a single lozenge to its owner. Popping it under his tongue, he got to work scrawling schematics concepts on the back and front of a manila folder, and adding all kinds of notes wherever they would fit. This included a mix of G.A.-exclusive combinations and combinations with RobCo inclusions, though he had every intention to respect Angel’s boundaries--even if the warranty no longer mattered for all manner of reasons, it provided a very black-and-white understanding of what Angel was comfortable with ‘Choly doing to its body and programming. He finished off the coffee from the day before while he worked. They agreed that one of each tendril would be the ideal: a standard Handy limb, outfitted with an interchangeable laser, a saw, and a pincer; a standard Nanny limb, with an interchangeable pincer, a saw, and an injection tool; and a standard Gutsy limb, with an interchangeable saw, a laser, and a minigun. Barring locating sufficient 5.56mm and MF cell ammunition to keep the Gutsy arm equipped, the real task was optimizing the motherboard’s ability to wield any combination of these three at a moment’s notice, without overloading the processing speed. A standard issue Handy, Gutsy, or Nanny came optimized with programming to handle three of any one of the limb sets, not one of each. But, as he skimmed the programming with his Pip-Boy key-prong plugged into Angel, the Berries found a solution to the limbs’ shared compatibility which also facilitated the other element of the upgrades--its hydraulics capacity via its thruster calibration.

‘Choly requested Angel retrieve the required parts from the junkyard, and once they were amassed inside, he had the Handy mount the curved forks of the robotics workbench and switch off its pilot light. Then, he got to work, motivated by the creative impulses of the Berry Mentats.

“I’m sorry that we didn’t find any paint,” he started, while he finished tightening the bolts underneath Angel on its thruster core comprised of pieces from each model of robot, onto which he would re-mount the new set of tendrils. “You’ll have mismatched shell colors for a while. But, for what it’s worth, white, sky blue, and army green isn’t an unattractive combination.”

“I’m simply grateful that you’re taking all this time and effort on my behalf, Sir. I’ll never get used to the sensation of being physically incapable of movement. I know it will only last a few more hours at most, but I worry my speech module is compensating for my inability to move anything else.”

“We’ve already refilled your fuel tank. And done all the cutting and welding, like armoring the top curve of the tendrils with pieces of van wheel well arches. Protecting the joints will help deter them from getting severed again. --But with the modified core, attaching and calibrating the tendrils will go very quickly. What I’m most grateful for, though, is that I could welt those car door handles and a pair of motorcycle foot pegs onto you, so I can stop worrying that the fabric harness is going to rip off through wear.”

“I quite like the choice of Chryslus Coupe handles. They’re sleek and angular, in contrast to the smooth curves of my design.”

“I figured you’d notice the model I picked them from,” he grinned, getting started loading the tendrils one at a time onto their cylindrical chassis. “They’re not the ones from _his_ Coupe, but I feel like his ghost would come to haunt me if I so much as considered touching his car.”

“He really is gone... isn’t he?” Even Angel’s voice grew distant.

“He was gone two hundred years ago,” ‘Choly replied without missing a beat, too detached from emotions by the effects of the potent nootropics to get distracted from his task. “The moment your biometric scanners could no longer recognize him, he was gone. You put what was left of him to rest, in the Red Rocket this week.”

“Forgive my sentimentality. I don’t intend to upset you, Mister Carey. I just... I know I’m merely an artificial intelligence, but I really do miss Mister Hawthorne.”

The chemist plugged in his Pip-Boy key-prong and got to working on calibration and maintenance scans.

“That makes two of us.” After a pause, he added, “It’s better, this way.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m glad we still have each other, Angel.”

“And I you. I hope it stays that way for some time. Not having either of you... I nearly fell apart before you resurfaced from the vault.”

“I’m glad I can still be here for you.” He smiled up at its ocular lenses. “I’ve optimized the programming for your new ocular lens armatures and sensors, as well as for your new thruster hydraulics and new tendrils. You’ll still have your Handy software, but it’s largely running with Gutsy and Nanny hardware. I have to power you down in order to initiate the maintenance scans, and then reboot you so that the system will pick up the new hardware. Are you ready?”

“I cannot wait to reawaken and understand for myself what humans mean when they see everything with new eyes.”

While Angel powered down, and the Pip-Boy ran its diagnostics with the robot turned off, ‘Choly couldn’t move from his place in the office chair beside the workbench, and, for lack of anything better to do tethered in place, he fished his flip lighter and a half-pack of menthols from his coat pockets. He didn’t smoke much, less than a pack a month, but sometimes his restlessness got the best of him. It was more about the ritual and paraphernalia than it was about the nicotine, and he readily admitted this. The irony glossed over him, that the Handy would have considered it a contraband chem in his possession, had it been alert to the behavior. The cigarette was out before Angel’s boot sequence initiated. He retracted the key-prong and watched. Angel’s tendrils seemed to stretch, and its three eye-stalks emerged from their concealed cutout plates to either side and front of its body.

“General Atomics International Mister Handy, 2066 model, nickname ‘Angel.’ Custom order serialization 33313222123123.” Angel registered its company, relit its pilot light, and dismounted from the workbench forks. “Good evening, Mister Carey!”

“How do you feel?”

“Like a new robot.” It sped forward, then side to side, and it inspected its tendrils with a seeming thoughtfulness. “It’s peculiar. The programming for Mister Gutsy and Miss Nanny parts has always existed to some capacity within my own programming from the beginning, but to feel more of it being executed. Would it be strange of me to speculate that it... it feels _right_?”

“You’re allowed to feel things,” ‘Choly grinned, proud of his work. “Let’s go out into the yard and see if there’s any more fine tuning we need to do with your new parts. You’ve got enough ammunition to do a little target practice, and I want to test out the soundness of the harness mounts. ...I know my opinion matters far less than your own, but I think your new look is pretty fetching.”

“I quite agree! These new ocular lenses have heightened sensory arrays in them, so I can see and perceive even behind me. I’m fascinated with all the details filling into my readings. Including a heightened understanding of what I look like. Dare I say, you’ve made me quite a bit more self-aware, Sir.”

“As long as you’re aware of how wonderful you are, I think we’re working in the right direction.”


	3. Recrudescence (Ch36)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Blood, insects, not taking chronic illness so great.

Once they’d stepped out of the office, both Angel’s new top handles and recalibrated thruster facilitated ‘Choly in smoothly mounting it. The chemist ported both his syringer rifle and his .38, and rode his General Atomics custom companion out into the junkyard. The two took a lap around the yard, then set up some cans and bottles they’d found about the grounds. They took turns shooting at them, ‘Choly to measure the facility of firing from atop Angel with the harness replaced by handles and foot-pegs, and Angel to gauge the effectiveness and stability of the upgrades its owner had made. A successful testing round exhausted trash targets, so they then shot at components of junk vehicles. One would call out the part and make of the vehicle in their sights, and then make good on the shot, not at all unlike calling shots in billiards.

‘Choly had never been so great at billiards. Rather than ding its side mirror, the chemist shattered a Pick-R-Up’s passenger window with a pencil round, and he flinched when Angel chortled. He shot again in defeat, purposefully hitting the broadside of the once-red truck’s passenger door.

Soon, he observed the pickup truck shift in place, and his face slacked. The ground had built up not just underneath but around the underside of the vehicle’s chassis... and within it. The scale of it had prevented him from identifying it as any anthill he’d have known, but when the two-foot-long insects poured out of the cab of the truck, there would be no mistaking it.

He slung his rifle over his back in favor of his pistol, and helped Angel in pushing back the giant ants. His jaw tensed as the game shifted to a crisis, and his eyes scrunched wide with frozen loathing as Angel’s last laser fire struck the very bottom-heavy front end of the Pick-R-Up instead of the last ant.

“ _We have to get out of here!_ ” He kicked Angel as though to spur it to about face as requested. It complied without hesitation, and immediately he rubbed at its chassis with one hand in apology at the reflex.

Before they even exited the front gate of the hurricane fence, the truck’s rusted nuclear engine combusted. Ants and vehicle parts flew everywhere, and in a chain reaction, the explosion resulted in wave after wave of vehicular explosions. ‘Choly looked back as they zipped down, to realize they sped down Route 62 and not North on Route 4 like he’d planned. He bit his lower lip, but accepted the choice. Maybe they could get to U.S. Route 3 by dark.

The longer they traveled, the denser the once-evergreen woods grew. Angel broke the silence after they’d followed the broken asphalt for half an hour.

“I must say, that was a thousand times worse than shooting at a hornet nest.” The Mister Handy switched out its pincers in favor of a laser and two saws while it spoke. “I apologize for my inaccurate aim precipitating our abrupt exit. Hopefully, you had no further need of anything on premises.”

“We both missed shots. I don’t fault you. Those ants were fast. I’m surprised your thruster flame kept them from climbing you.” He frowned, nettled by noticing its companion’s tacit poise, and readied his .38. “Guess we won't be learning what's wrong with that Sentry...”

“For the better, Mister Carey. That wasn’t our mystery to solve. The government didn’t seem to want it repaired, regardless.”

They approached the on-ramp to access US Route 3. Though ‘Choly recalled the crumbling state of the I-95 flyover in Lexington, he opted to direct them to remain on the highway rather than travel around it. Unlike the flyover, Route 3 was not an elevated expressway, and as such, they could hop the concrete guard walls if they came upon a patch they could not cross. Rusted-out vehicles had crashed through these barriers in places, including an overturned freightliner halfway spilled down the embankment. Besides the weaving required to navigate the highway, all remained quiet. Still, ‘Choly could not ignore Angel still had its weapons drawn.

“I take it you’re sensing something I’m not.”

“I’m not quite sure just yet. I didn’t want to mention it until I was certain, in case it could be chalked up to my still acclimating to the new sensor array.”

“Well, can you describe it?”

“It’s more... what do humans call it? A sense of dread. The woodlands have changed so much since we last came this way.”

“So you’ve got the heebie-jeebies.” His smile faded as quick as it formed. “It’s going to be all right. We just have to get up to the base first.”

The Frank L. Johnson Bridge had bellied out into the Concord, so they moved onto the outer shoulder of the highway.

“Should I dismount? And each of us cross on our own?”

“Nonsense, Sir! My hydraulics could handle a little water skimming, even before your upgrades.”

With that, Angel’s thruster sputtered into a different transmission tier, and they smoothly skated across the river with a swift, spraying wake. ‘Choly glanced both up and down river, admiring how even two hundred years after the apocalypse, the Concord had retained its idyllic tranquility. Once upon the other side, another overturned freightliner obstructed their immediate reentry to Route 3, and they continued on the outer shoulder a ways. Before either could register it coming, something that hummed divebombed ‘Choly’s face. Angel abruptly spun about face, but the moment blurred in a sharp pain to ‘Choly’s rib cage.

“Won’t you stay still!” slurred out of the Handy, and blood smeared through the air in front of ‘Choly as the circular saw connected with the assailant. It swerved about to nearly dance with the others incoming. “How dare you!”

Failing not to hyperventilate, the chemist looked down at his vault suit to find a mosquito head lodged by the foot-long proboscis between a clavicle and rib. His vision fell into a vignette, and his prickling extremities numbed. He could notice laser fire, but could barely focus enough to aim his pistol. Until he could reach his first aid for a Stimpak, he had to resist the reflex to pull the instrument of anatomy from his own.

When Angel noticed ‘Choly wasn’t helping it fire on the insects, it understood the immediacy of locating cover, and sped down the highway rather than eliminate them all.

‘Choly next noticed they were no longer on Route 3. Angel meandered meaningfully through a hilly expanse of field, toward a large white colonial building. He felt like he wasn’t processing what he saw, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of observing robotic carnage strewn about the unkempt fairway. They took the stairs up to the patio, and entered. 'Choly took in the interior design, between the gold twelve-point cross-stars mounted all along the far wall and the bar front with its marble-top, and recognized it as the clubhouse of the Billerica Golf Course.

Angel lowered ‘Choly to collapse gently backwards into a lounge chair. It readied a Stimpak to administer the moment ‘Choly had removed the mosquito proboscis. The thrust required to pull the spiny, textured thing back out left him heaving for breath, and he clamped his free hand over the wound to put pressure on the blood flow. He vacuously wiped blood from the lower half of his face. The Handy gave him a moment to catch his breath before offering him the last Melancholia, which he accepted with resignation.

“I fear I put you in harm’s way,” it started, tendrils terse. “I should have acted sooner. Damn bloodbugs! It’s difficult to trust the increased detail and range of my perception. Do tell me you’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be fine.” Proboscis in one hand, numbing beverage in the other, he let out a weak wet chuckle. “Bloodbugs. Went right for the heart. If it hadn’t been for my spinal corset, it might have connected.”

“Forgive me, gentlemen, but I can’t help but notice the terrible scrap you seem to have just been in.”

The chemist jumped, thinking at first the second holographic British voice had been an hallucination brought on by pain and painkillers, but it was far too soft to belong to Angel. He and his Handy both looked up to find they’d been approached by the very dented up brass Handy that once had run the clubhouse’s bar and grill.

“Bogey, was it?” Angel fielded. “I’m Angel. It’s been many years since we came this way, but you might remember Mister Carey?”

“That I am.” Bogey honed its triplicate sensors on ‘Choly. “You were one of our frequent driving range patrons, were you not?”

“Guilty.” ‘Choly tossed the proboscis on the lounge table. “Thanks for not being mad for us barging in. We’re on our way up to Lowell, but we got dive-bombed by m-- bloodbugs.”

“My word. It’s already getting late, and I don’t encourage traveling Route 3 by night these days. You’re free to stay until tomorrow, though it may not be too much safer.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got an insect problem here, too.” ‘Choly cut off his wheeze with another swig of the cherry-sweet drink.

“You weren’t followed, were you?”

‘Choly and Angel looked to each other, then back to Bogey. He shook his head.

“I don’t think we’ve got any worries, then,” it extrapolated at a caution, its posture slacking. “Come with me, the two of you. It’s been some time since I had a patron to tend to.”

Angel handed him his cane, and the two followed Bogey to the locker rooms. All the metal doors had been opened, but their contents remained. Several skeletons scattered the floor, including one having fallen out of the shower stall.

“You’re free to help yourself to a change of clothes from what’s in the lockers. It’s been two hundred years since anyone’s used them, and clubhouse policy indicates that any belongings left for more than six months become Billerica Golf Course property, and we can’t resell used clothing. Need I remind in advance, however, not to wear cleats in the clubhouse.”

“My, Bogey, that’s most generous of you. And generous to extend us hospitality! Mister Carey has been most distressed at his lack of wardrobe variety as of late, and it’s quite good to see a friendly face.”

“Ah, yes, agreed. That’s a fine shade of blue, but I imagine humans grow tired of the same exterior far more readily than any of us do. On that note, whatever became of you, chum? If you don’t mind my asking, I’ve never seen a Mister Handy in such a hodgepodge.”

The chemist chuckled as he browsed the lockers. Not many of them had anything in them, but he would stop and pull out an article of clothing on occasion. While the two Handy-bots chatted, he picked out a pair of khaki golf trousers and a cobalt blue pinstripe dress shirt with a white contrast collar and French cuffs, and a gold knit button-down sweater vest that he didn’t mind was missing a button. He found a pair of cleats in his size, and even a pair of saddle oxfords. He put a hand on a sock became animated.

“Good god, _socks_ ,” he hushed, going back through the locker contents to grab every pair he could find. No pairs seemed to have survived in tact, but he nearly felt endeared to the notion of mis-mates, and held two at a time up to one another with an odd grin. “It’s been months since I had a new pair of socks. Funny how the simple necessities of yesterday have become so... indulgent.”

“You can have as much or as little attire as you like,” Bogey indulged. “It’s simply occupying space here.”

“We have the storage space for a few ensembles, Mister Carey, if you find anything else to your liking. I’ll leave you with a canister of water and a towel, if you’d like to freshen up before you change.” Angel deposited the items beside the pile of clothing ‘Choly had made on the bench in the middle of the locker room. “I’ll be with Bogey in the lounge, if you need us.”

“Thank you. Both of you.”

Once they were gone, he doubled back to the locker where he had noticed its previous tenant had kept several pair of briefs, and he added them to his pile of new acquisitions. He disrobed and cleaned his face and front with a certain detachment. His spinal corset had soaked up a lot of blood, and removing it for the night would ideally help it dry out. He dressed in his new outfit, minus his binding, and finished off his Melancholia. Looking to the empty bottle, he bit his lip askew.

“I suppose it can’t be helped.”

His Pip-Boy click-chirped, and he glanced down to find the health tab highlighted. _Last known Pip-Boy to Vault Suit synchronization completed at 16:23. Please reconnect Pip-Boy to Vault Suit to reestablish advanced diagnostics._ It was well after five now. He straightened. When Vault 111 staff had insisted the technological excellence of the Vault-Tec Vault Suit, he had balked at it. But he had no idea the two synchronized for peak function.

He flipped the dial over to the health tab and selected it to read it over. _Systemic damage to connective tissues due to sustained exposure to unknown CFCs. Chronic arthritis and arthralgia, possibly owing to a general neuralgia. Likelihood of syncope under duress. Undetermined neurological damage manifesting as memory lacunae._ Shell-shock. Opioid addiction.

A hand went to ‘Choly’s mouth, and his right arm slacked. He hadn’t wanted to be right all this time, what was wrong with him. The majority of the things the Pip-Boy enumerated, didn’t sound like they could be cured by medicine. He winced at noticing that he’d nipped his lip between his teeth, and licked at the metallic taste. It wouldn’t get better. This was the best he would get. He stood and left the military coat, Vault Suit, orthotics, and various golf clothing in a mound on the bench. He didn’t bother tidying his hair as he shambled off with his cane to meet the Handy-bots in the main room of the clubhouse.

Surely, after the day he’d had, Bogey could indulge him with a stiff drink.


	4. Hellfire (Ch37)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: lascivious themes, insects, blood, coprophobia, mysophobia, decomposition. It’s not as explicit as the nosedive or the short story, but he’s revisiting the memory of those things here, so.

Now that the sun had set, little light entered the clubhouse’s lounge lobby through the high paneled windows to either side of the back wall behind the bar or the broken windows at the front. At first, ‘Choly had made his way by the sound of Bogey and Angel chatting, but they fell quiet once he exited the locker room and 'Choly instead came up to the bar by the light the two Mister Handy robots’ thruster flames emitted. He sat at one of the stools with a tired smile, and hooked his cane beside him on the edge of the countertop.

“I hope the change of attire suits you,” Bogey started, to break the silence. ‘Choly looked between the two of them and nodded. “You really must forgive my poor hosting. I was programmed as the bar and grill server, but it’s all bar and no grill as of late. Could I interest you in a drink? I regret to note we’re out of ice at the moment.”

Angel answered on his behalf before he could even consider cocktail options.

“Mister Carey, a _Nuka-Cola Wild_ sounds to your liking, doesn’t it?”

'Choly would have rolled his eyes and objected to the euphemism for a designated driver, were it not for the irony that Angel had still not noticed that he had sampled at least three flavors of bicentennial Nuka-Cola and discovered they’d each turned alcoholic. But, he hadn’t encountered the sarsaparilla flavored variety in mention in the past few months, so although he had a suspicion it too would have fermented, he couldn’t confirm it from personal experience.

“We’re fresh out of Nuka-Cola Wild, I’m afraid,” the brass Handy apologized, believing its patron to be making up his mind as to what to order. “If you’d like something non-alcoholic, could I interest you instead in a Nuka-Cola Classic, or a Nuka-Cola Cherry?”

The chemist gave it a sloppy grin.

“You’re really too kind, Bogey. You don’t need to provide me dinner. I’ve already eaten tonight. Angel has the right idea. A Nuka-Cola Cherry sounds _refreshing_.”

While pouring the Nuka-Cola Cherry into a highball glass using two pincer tendrils, with the third Bogey surreptitiously flicked on the fusion cell lantern on the counter. The bar area illuminated with a warm coppery glow, and highlighted the myriad of dents in the chassis of the brass Handy. It set the glass in front of ‘Choly, as well as the bottle of what wouldn’t fit, and awaited his approval in bated posture.

“Thanks for the drink. Really hits the spot.” He sighed comfortably. “And thanks for turning on some light. My eyesight isn’t so great anymore.”

Bogey flinched, only to loosen, accepting the gratitude.

“You’ll be staying the night, then?” it fielded at a caution.

“If it’s all right with you, that is.” He took another drink. “You wouldn’t happen to have a straw, would you?”

It provided without skipping a beat, and he smiled approvingly as he fidgeted with the bending section. A straw made it so much easier.

“I suppose you could put down a bed roll behind the bar, or in the corner. Or, if it’s no trouble to you, there is a couch in the ladies’ locker room. We’ve no other patrons on the premises, and haven’t for many years, so I don’t think it would create any fuss.”

This time ‘Choly flinched, but recovered quickly enough to conceal the cause of the discomfort in Bogey’s proposition. He’d sooner admit loathing the idea of sleeping on yet another couch, than that he took exception to the furniture’s location. No, he couldn’t ask either of them to move it, either, because then they might ask why.

“Is this the only lantern?” ‘Choly asked it. “I wouldn’t ask to borrow it, if you need it.”

A little too readily, it nearly foisted the lantern upon him.

“It is! But, neither I nor Angel need it, if you’re so inclined.”

Bogey’s nervousness didn’t go unnoticed. He put a hand to the pincer holding the handle, and looked into its ocular lenses in earnest.

“You’re doing an amazing job. Really. Provided everything that’s happened, I’m still getting the same quality of service as I always have coming here.”

Bogey set down the lantern. It withdrew all its tendrils in close and turned away from him a moment, before glancing back to him by turning its lenses and not its body.

“...I’m glad to have your vote of confidence, Sir. It’s really been far too long since I’ve hosted anyone. You’re the first civil person I’ve encountered in easily a hundred years.”

“I can’t imagine there’s many people left with interest in playing golf, let alone knowledge how to play. The Commonwealth’s always had love affair with baseball, really. I always preferred fairway over diamond. Quiet. Broad. ...Cathartic. A real head space sport.”

“We shall see about arranging you with a bucket in the morning, if you so desire it, Sir. From the sound of things, you could really use a quiet commune."

“I’ve been telling Bogey about the recent series of scraps we’ve found ourselves in, Sir,” Angel elucidated, a little sheepishly. “It’s just I worry for you.”

“As long as you haven’t been exaggerating and telling Bogey I took out that deathclaw all by myself, or any of that,” ‘Choly laughed. He poured the rest of the bottle into the glass now that it had the room. “That couch already beckons. The day has already tried me.”

“ _It’s been trying_ for sure,” Angel agreed like a grammarian. “I’ll go lay out your blanket and pillow.”

“And my holotape, if you could,” ‘Choly called off to him once it was halfway to the lockers. “You know the one.”

“Ah yes. A bedtime story. Certainly, Sir!”

‘Choly left the empty glass for Bogey. He nearly reached into his pocket for a tip, but stopped short of the thought process at the realization that in lieu of human coworkers, a Mister Handy had no real use for money. His mouth became a thin line before he shot the brass Handy a huge grin and patted both hands on the counter. Even if it asked for money, he couldn’t in good conscience follow through with that habituation when he’d since learned better of the current economy of the Commonwealth. He stood and took up his cane, and picked up the lantern in the other.

“I must figure out a proper way to repay you for your hospitality before we head out, Bogey. Good night.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Sir. If it’s important to you, we can discuss it tomorrow. The only thing pressing at the moment is that you rest well.”

“With the two of you here, I’ll sleep easy for sure.”

“Mister Carey, I’ve arranged your bedding,” Angel reported emerging again from the lockers. “I’ll be right here in the lounge lobby, protecting you and Bogey. Just call for me if you need anything.”

At the mention of Bogey, he turned back to look at the brass Handy, to discover it had put out its pilot light to crouch on its tendrils through the night. His head fell askew as he continued on his way to bed, but he chalked it up to it reserving Handy Fuel. He snapped his fingers. Maintenance. He could provide Bogey _maintenance_. It’d be nothing as fancy as he’d given Angel, without the proper tools or materials, but surely Bogey had gone decades if not centuries without a re-fuel and a tune up. That would serve the Handy bounds before any currency ever could, especially one isolated in the middle of a large abandoned golfing green.

The ladies’ locker room had fewer lockers and more space. Angel had left not just the ‘Flyblown’ holotape on the coffee table, but also a canister of water, and he set down his glasses and the lantern with them. He’d leave on the light throughout the night, just for sake of it being an unfamiliar location. 'Choly toed his shoes under the faded dark blue leather couch, settled down onto it, and pulled the covers over himself. Since the couch’s arms still had most of their filling, he opted to stuff the pillow between his legs. He popped the holotape into his Pip-Boy’s cassette deck and set to reading to unwind amid the heavy low of the final Melancholia and the slurring comfort of intoxication.

The notion of scandalizing bloatfly syringe usage had rotted into an entirely different context since the conception of the work of fiction. It had been his go-to escapism off and on for months now, but he hadn’t reread it since before he’d escaped the burning pharmacy. Bloatfly syringes no longer exclusively existed in fictional parameters. He’d seen what they were capable of in reality. He found himself glazing over every few paragraphs and having to reread frequently, and ultimately closed the document and turned off the Pip-Boy screen.

‘Choly stared off into the recessed detailing of the ceiling, and how the lantern light, trapped in the crumbling edges of the peeling paint, created the illusion of a pile of dead leaves. He’d dodged death more times than he probably knew in just the last week alone. He could have burned alive in the pharmacy. Jared’s raiders could have caught him and murdered him for killing their leader. The deathclaw could have torn every last one of them apart. Radiation poisoning would have gotten him, if Angel hadn’t found him in the Red Rocket. They could have been blown to bits in that car graveyard. And if that giant mosquito had stabbed him in the chest even an inch further down, it would have pierced his heart. It seemed like just about anything in the wasteland could kill him, and a majority of it would kill him without hesitation.

Inspiration lay in wait all around him. He’d have to get more creative with his bucket list erotica, next time he penned any. Even in the slim chance that Mama Murphy hadn’t explicitly spoken the future into the present, it at least proved he could endeavor that his works act as a form of vicarious self-fulfilling prophecy. He drifted to sleep floating amid the notion that very little stood in the way of fiction becoming reality any longer. He need only apply himself...

_‘Choly completed his rooftop chem break for the afternoon, and retired to his office garden to sow a fresh layer of fertilizer. The next thing he knew, he was coming up for air after having his face shoved down in the gardening planter full of brahmin manure. His head swam and swirled with kaleidoscoping hubflowers and flies. Eventually he was washing himself in the Mystic River while Angel laundered his clothing, chastising him all the while as though it believed he’d taken that nosedive on purpose. “Did you intend for that encounter to end your life?” If it’d had a tongue, it’d have clicked it in distaste. A cloud of bloodbugs swarmed him as Angel fish-eyed further and further out of reach. They jabbed him and sprayed his naked body with his own partly-digested blood. _The Quincy survivors stood on the opposite bank, staring at him._ He tried to cry out for his Mister Handy, but it minded the laundry. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Mister Kara?”_

_He was in the Red Rocket with Jacob again, fucking on the desk. He clawed for breath in a panic as the familiarity of acute radiation poisoning overwhelmed him. Bloatfly larvae packed into the feral ghoul’s fetid features, and they fell off and out of the ghoul and onto ‘Choly. Rather than lingering, they fell off into the floor and all over the desk, seeking to crawl back onto feral ghoul. Tears rolled down his face between the pain and rejection, and he could tell the mosquitoes had infected him with something that caused him acute, rapid swelling in his lower half. He realized the recoolant station office was crowded with other faces, all as rotten and disfigured but just as recognizable as Jacob’s. All of them teemed with those diligent lichinka, in wriggling indifference to ‘Choly. Jared. Mrs. Rosa. Heydar Jahani. Gristle, Lonnie, and Jerry. Jerry, in her power armor frame, with her Fatman perched squarely on her shoulder, ready to fire on him._

_He shot awake when Jerry pulled the trigger, and gasped amid smoke. The pharmacy was on fire, and Angel was nowhere to be found. His legs had become so swollen, tight, and stiff, that he couldn’t move. He pulled his face into his shirt collar, and couldn’t stop coughing. A woman in ornate sheer lace lingerie stood before him, rubenesque and redheaded in silhouette of the flames behind her. She administered a Stimpak syringe to her hip and sneered at him with a sustained stare. He knew it was Duchesne, but he didn’t have the breath to call out to her. Stocking-foot and disinterested in the fire, she approached him out of pity. In closer proximity, he recognized she had succumbed to the same flyblown putrescence as the others. “You always wanted to know what the Stimpaks were for, didn’t you?” She administered another, and discarded the empty syringe to the floor. The fold of her thighs roiled with lichinka beneath her panties. “It’s so they don’t leave before they finish what they’re here for.” Duchesne traced a third Stimpak from ‘Choly’s jaw down to his stomach, and he stuttered. Her lip curled in revulsion. Both of them could tell the larvae would not contour to his body despite hers came in proximity. “Not even Radroaches would eat you.”_

'Choly awoke hyperventilating in a fever chill. He steadied his breathing as he opened the health tab on his Pip-Boy to double-check it had not sensed blood pathogens of any kind during its diagnosis. No malaria, no filariasis. No bacteria, viruses, or parasites. His tongue stuck to his cotton mouth and he frowned, reaching for the water canister. Sitting up, he wet his throat then washed his face. The sun had risen, and filtered in through the clerestory windows which lined the top of the wall at the half of the locker room with the lavatories and showers. He turned off the lantern, then folded up his blanket.

Like the men’s locker room, the ladies’ lockers had also all been left open, with the patrons’ clothing folded neatly. He skimmed their contents, half-lucid, and realized only in contrast to the women’s garments, what had been missing from the men’s lockers. He helped himself to any socks and stockings he found, as well as a geranium red cashmere sweater. No valuables of any kind lay in either set of lockers: no money, no jewelry, no timepieces. If this place had been looted, the clothing wouldn’t have been folded so ceremoniously. Bogey must have combed it over and deposited all valuables in a safe somewhere on premises. He caught himself scheming whether he needed to sneak around Bogey to determine the safe’s location, and chastised himself for even thinking about taking advantage of such a good host. He put his hands on a pair of lacy black panties and guffawed in delight at the very thought of wearing them, only to jerk in recollection of the nightmare he’d just had, and he flung them down with a nauseated snarl.

He piled his things, old and new, atop the blanket, and carried his effects in this way across the way to the men’s room, where he’d left everything else overnight. He found Angel had slung his canvas spinal corset and Vault Suit over the locker doors to dry, and stared at the blood stains for some time. After pinching the fabrics to test their dryness, he disrobed, slipped on his orthotics, and redressed. He appreciated how tacky it was, to wear one striped sock and one argyle. One mirror in the men’s room had survived, and with it he used a few splashes of water to slick his hair and tuck it into a fresh french twist.

The chemist cursed his initial craving to start his day with a Melancholia, recalling he now had none left. He couldn’t tell if he sought the comfort of the meal replacement, or the nepenthe of the opiates. With a sigh, he opted for the cashmere sweater rather than the sweater vest, and folded the contrast cuffs over the cuffs of the sweater. He then put on his shoes, and went out into the lobby lounge with his cane.

“Good morning, Sir!” Angel sped up to him with a fresh cup of coffee for him. “You slept well, I hope?”

“I think the healing affected me in a bad way,” he murmured, taking the coffee to the closest table to sit. His face scrunched up and stared into the drink. “...This isn’t my mug.”

“...Ah, it’s one of ours,” Bogey explained, also approaching. “Angel told me this morning that, in your haste to escape that explosion yesterday afternoon, the two of you left behind the hot plate and percolator it had been using to brew your coffee. Between my appliances and dishes, and its purified water and coffee grounds, we concerted our efforts to ensure you had a fine drink to awaken to.”

‘Choly’s face journeyed through exasperation to appreciation in a matter of seconds, and he let the mug warm his hands for lack of a better reaction.

“We can easily replace the percolator and hot plate,” Angel reassured. “The hard thing to replace would have been the beans, and that’s still safely stowed in my storage.”

“You can keep the mug, if you like it. A souvenir from the Billerica Golf Course.”

“Heh. You two are just swell--”

He winced at his choice of words, still unable to distance himself from the nightmare. He thanked them both through clenched teeth, and shoved it all down by taking a testing sip of the hot black drink.

“Would you like me to whip up a box of Insta-Mash for you, Sir? Or perhaps you’d rather some more sweet rolls?”

“I’ve honey roasted peanuts, as well.” Bogey dropped five heat-sealed clear bags of peanuts onto the table, then returned to hovering just behind Angel. “If you’d like. It’s all I have.”

He smiled.

“Peanuts and a sweet roll sound superb. My appetite’s not so great when I first wake up. I’ll eat more at lunch.” Angel set the requested pastry before him, but he didn’t eat just yet. He patted his hands together, then wrung them. “In the mean time... Bogey. I’ve been giving it some thought. I have the money for the cola from last night, and for the peanuts and coffee now, and for your hospitality... But you’re the only one on premises, aren’t you? Money’s not going to do you much good if you’re out here all alone.”

“I-- I meant it last night, that you haven’t got to recompense my attentions. It’s been a delight in itself to have someone to tend to again after all these years.”

He persisted in the offer, his smile widening. His nose scrunched to push up his glasses.

“I’m sure Angel’s mentioned that I do maintenance on it, and that I’m responsible for its recent upgrades. I can take a look at you, and see what I can do about anything ailing you. Angel went a long time without upkeep, and I’m sure you need it just as much as it did. You mentioned Angel provided the water, for instance. I can get your condensators working again. And I noticed you put out your pilot light last night. You were conserving gas, weren’t you? I can refill your fuel tank.”

“Oh! that sounds just delightful,” Angel beamed. “Bogey, Mister Carey will get you right as new. You really must say yes. I swear by his care.”

“I... I’m not sure what to say.” Bogey withdrew back by a row of tables, its tendrils curled at its front. “You... you noticed I put out my pilot light. I didn’t mean to give you cause to fret.”

"Neither of you affected the quality of my sleep. I promise.” He bit into his pastry finally, his mouth suffusing with cinnamon oil. “We really can’t stay too long, Bogey. Say you’ll let me look you over before we go. I have to pay back your hospitality and kindness somehow.”

“If you really must insist, a tune up sounds... well, it sounds too good to be true.” Bogey caught itself in the reflex to dart away, and stood firm. “I... I have to admit, I thought you might be one of those... ugh, _Devils_ ,when I first caught a glimpse of Angel. I should have known better. Your work is much more sightly, and much more careful. I can certainly appreciate that you stayed within the scope of the General Atomics warranty.”

‘Choly’s brow flattened, then raised slowly from behind his coffee as he sipped.

“Devils? You’ll have to tell me all about it while I work.”


	5. Earning Stripes, Flying Colors (Ch38)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A treatise.

The bucket only had a few golf balls left now. ‘Choly had nabbed a sports visor off the body of someone who’d been on the green at 9:47am October 23, 2077. From beneath its faded brim, his gaze skimmed the balding, scorched fairway and snagged on the metallic bits that caught the sunlight. The Billerica Golf Course had once employed eighteen robots, half Mister Handies, and half Protectrons. Seventeen of them now lay in pieces across the property. He placed a fresh ball on the tee, and hammered through the 4-wood stroke with a clenched jaw.

_Bogey did its best to sit still. It had put out its pilot light again, and it resembled a tripod in an odd way. With his Pip-Boy plugged into the brass Handy to access its disk maintenance algorithms, 'Choly wondered if a Handy really could get efficient mobility on its tendrils rather than its pilot light, if it came to it. Bogey seemed to manage with it, uncanny as it was. Perhaps it had adapted._

_“Really, I can’t tell you all that much about the raiders. I... I tend to hide at the first sign of their approach. They call themselves the Rust Devils. They prioritize parts salvage, to the point they’ll demolish perfectly stable, operating robots in order to... gut the remains...” Bogey’s three ocular lenses all retracted under their plates for what it said next. “...From what I’ve observed, I believe they turn off all AI processes not vital to combat. Between the victimized robots’ altered processing state and the unceremonious mishmash of the customizations the raiders jerry-build... I dare say that to encounter one... it must feel to a Handy, what it's like for a human to encounter a feral ghoul. And most of them-- they’ll wear shell components like armor--! It’s just awful--”  
_

_“My word,” Angel ejected. “Most appalling. They_ wear _shells?” Its tendrils shuddered._

_“I’m more worried what they’re combining,” ‘Choly mumbled. “And where they’re getting the parts from.” He buried himself in the algorithm scan, and tried not to dismiss the two robots’ revulsion. It didn’t matter that ferals didn’t repulse him. His comfort zone wasn’t on the table here.  
_

With his mind wandering, he didn’t even notice where the ball landed. It didn’t matter, range picking Protectrons or no. He placed another ball. The next swing took the tee with it, and he stuttered a detached curse under his breath.

_“You should come with us to Lowell,” ‘Choly soothed. “To the Deenwood Compound. I’m sure Angel agrees with me, that we’re both anxious at the idea of leaving you somewhere vulnerable like this.”_

_“Me? Go to Lowell!?” Bogey moaned, its ocular lenses flying animate again in incredulity. “I don’t know where the Rust Devils have stationed themselves, but they always come down here from the North. The way’s not safe! You two shouldn’t... no, can’t! Surely I could dissuade you. They’re barbaric!”  
_

_“Mister Carey, there’s the option of--”  
_

_“--No. There’s not.” He pointed a stern finger at Angel. “We can’t. We’re just an hour or so from the base now. We can’t afford to add another day’s travel.”  
_

_“But Bogey’s a brass--”  
_

Really, he wasn’t being selfish by refusing to double back. Was he? He re-teed and the next stroke threw out his shoulder from the force jarring the follow-through. He grumbled and rubbed at it with a fat upper lip. He thought to himself, I can dick around on the green for an hour, but I can’t double back to get Bogey someplace safe? No, he wasn’t dicking around. He was clearing his head. Forming a plan. He and Angel would leave soon.

_“I really didn’t want to worry either of you about me. I’ll be safe here. Really,” Bogey swore. “It’s been a year since they last came on premises for salvage. It’s unlikely they’ll come down here again. By comparison, last year, they looted about every other month. They’ve probably taken everything they want. I’m smart about it, too. I keep the clubhouse looking uninhabited. No lights, not even my thruster. I only move as necessary. And I never move objects or furniture. It’s been excruciating not to dust, but it’s been a necessity. They won’t know to look for me. Even if they do trespass again, I’ll put out my pilot light and hide like I always do.”_

_“What did Angel mean?” ‘Choly crossed his arms, scrutinizing Bogey’s body. “What does it mean, for a Mister Handy to be brass colored?”  
_

_Suddenly, Angel regretted having said anything._

_“It’s a great deal how different Protectron models have different plating colors. Mister Gutsies are army green for being combat-oriented. Miss Nannies are white for their domestic and medical prowess. Chrome is the standard for a basic Mister Handy. ...Being brass means I’m not fully outfitted,” it admitted, feeling small. “I thought you might have noticed during your scans, so I didn’t mention it. I have no tendril accessories. Only my pincers.”  
_

_“I, I could-- If you--”  
_

In addition to ‘Choly’s upkeep, Angel had split its fusion cells with its new acquaintance. They still had Angel’s first laser attachment, and ‘Choly doted it upon Bogey readily. Bogey could defend itself a lot better now, between recalibration, refuel, and re-equipment. Bogey could sit tight for the moment, while he and Angel proceeded on to their destination, to assess the best course of action. It was a smart, if not cowardly, robot. If it wouldn’t go with them, he and Angel would just have to trust it.

Suddenly, the chemist couldn’t quite grasp why he was getting himself involved in defending a robot he’d only just met from raiders that might not even exist. Did he really care if Bogey was safe? Either way, the habits described of these savage robotics enthusiasts, with their proximity so close to base, presented a very real composite of concerns. Depending on the Devils’ luck and stubbornness, they very well might have forced their way past the security measures, and had the entire fleet of military robotics at their disposal. The Rust Devils inevitably stood between him and the closure he sought coming all this way. Nearly, he wondered if smoking them out of their operations in Lowell was what Missus Murphy had suggested all along.

Abandon help him, he hoped not. He didn’t want it to come down to dismantling another raider outfit. From the sound of it, the Rust Devils were more organized and committed to their goals than the Lexington raiders. His mind hiccuped on the desperation of searching the fairway for bloatflies he might harvest, and he sniffed to quieten his wilding.

_“...And sky blue?” ‘Choly asked. He looked between the two Handies when neither would answer him at first._

_“I’m DIA issue, Sir. A government robot.”  
_

_His earlobes burned. Did everyone he’d ever met know these things? Did everyone know why he had a Mister Handy issued by the Defense Intelligence Agency? His mind slipped through an anxiety-curated set of memories, of times his nationalization must surely have come across as incomplete. Everyone he’d ever known in the States had known he was Russian, didn’t they?_

_“You said you were off to the Deenwood Compound?” Bogey began, feeling the tension and dread building in the robotics maintenance shed. “If Angel is a DIA Handy, that means you must have handled some very important things for the military. You must have been an incredibly important person, if they felt that great a need to keep you safe.”  
_

_“I wouldn’t have gotten through my time on base, if it weren’t for Angel. That’s for certain.” He forced a smile at his old friend, and carried it toward new one. “I suppose Angel’s purpose isn’t so clean cut anymore, now that I’ve repaired it in such a way.”  
_

_“Call it a little dose of that ‘self agency’ you go on about at times, Sir. I’m my own robot.”  
_

_Bogey glanced at its newly augmented tendril, with its sky blue tip. It looked back up to them when it managed to initiate it to switch over to the laser attachment._

_“Perhaps I’m my own robot as well. I’m glad you both stayed here.”  
_

‘Choly placed another ball and rolled his shoulder until the amount of crackling it generated appeased his confidence he’d reset it. He shanked the ball and it whiffed off to the far left toward a stand of naked trees and overgrowth. His head fell askew in exasperation with himself. He slung the 4-wood back in the golf bag beside his tee box, retrieved his cane from it, and ambled across the fairway with an agitated wanderlust. I’m not going far, he reasoned. Just to the bounds of the driving range and back.

He stopped dead a few steps into the wooded patch, eyes wide. He’d happened upon a deer--or rather, what looked like it might have been a deer. Its two heads grazed at the foliage that had avoided sun-scorching within the shade of the husks of the trees. At least two hulking curled antlers branched from each of its two heads, and spiny cutaneous nodes jutted out of its foreheads and cheekbones like a rash. Radiation-induced mange had blighted its hide. It had too many limbs, but the penetrating uranium glow its organs emitted through its flesh transfixed him to where he couldn’t quite draw the faculty to count them, let alone process the form before him.

The stag seemed aware of him, but continued to eat undeterred by his observation. He watched for what felt like an eternity, and a crooked smile melted across his face as he shifted from alarm to awe. It was so strangely charming, with its too-much-ness. The impossibility of tracing the silhouette of some otherworldly entity, with dimensions that didn’t quite fit in his reality. A streak of wonder cut through him, at the uncertainty if such a disfigured creature was now even more so prey than before, or if it had since become a predator in the apocalypse. The dialectical soup of fear and enrapturement glued him in place, and every gamut of possible emotion hooked his smile into a frenetic grin.

“--Ah! Sir.” Angel approached at a whisper and a caution, noting the stag, which had stopped eating to stare back at the two of them. “There you are. We weren’t sure where you’d popped off to. Admiring the wildlife?”

“They’re not dangerous... are they?” he uttered, still staring onward.

“Not unless provoked, I imagine.”

As though pursued by something terrible and unseen, the stag abruptly leaped about face and bolted off deeper into the wooded area. ‘Choly jumped at the sudden animation, and looked to Angel, snapped out of his daze. He sighed, nearly disappointed that the spell had broken.

“It was so beautiful... and terrible... at the same time.” He looked back to where the stag had stood. Vacantly, he squinted at the foliage. For all the cruelty, murder, and pain in this new world, encounters such as the hubflower and the _radstag_ proved to him some hint of beauty still existed. His face slacked when he realized why he was staring at the plants, and he pointed to them with a repeated and increasing insistence. “Angel. Angel, silt beans. It was eating--”

“Fresh produce!” Angel swooped in to collect bean pods, and added them to an empty carton from the pharmacy.

“They’re no good raw,” he mumble-rambled, “but they’re edible cooked... They’re starchy. I...” He snorted in thought. “I wonder if they’d make a decent flour. I think you were right, that it had been a soy product I used. Soy flour. This could mean potential major progress reinventing the Melancholia.”

“Even if it doesn’t work out to a substitute in your recipe, I can still cook them up as something substantial and delicious!”

“Maybe I _won’t_ have to dread a future sucking down a fifth of bismuth a day.”

They doubled back to the clubhouse one last time. In anticipation of a conflict, ‘Choly changed out of his new outfit and back into his Vault Suit, holster harness, and Pharm Corps coat as before. Zipping up, he sat on the locker room bench, and traced the bloodstained, dime-sized hole the bloodbug had ripped in his suit. Pieces of his nightmare filtered back into forefront. His heart clenched in his ribs, searing down his left arm. He hadn’t encountered those things until he got near water, and they were headed to New England’s Venice. He’d inevitably encounter them again.

He could get better, could be better. He just needed proof of it, for his own sake.

They bid Bogey their farewells and headed out once they were certain it had the clubhouse secure. With a golf bag slung between him and Angel, ‘Choly had at the ready a handful of clubs, his syringer rifle, and his cane. In anticipation of a conflict, once they hit Route 3 again, Angel traveled with all three lasers drawn. Though he only had two clips of ammo left, ‘Choly still kept to his .38. He begged fate not to give them a run-in with the Rust Devils, but he knew their luck tended to reflect a likelihood otherwise.


	6. Commute (Ch39)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the needle's eye and right onto the hook.

As they took a steady clip Northbound on Route 3, the trees to either side of them shifted from predominantly pine to a mixture of rusty oak and maple. Very few vehicles scattered the street, allowing for a smooth, steady speed. ‘Choly smiled to himself at the thought of his Pip-Boy’s radio; at first, the signal was spotty at best, but he refined it to pull in a brassy, energetic instrumental broadcast. Once he got it steady, Angel seemed to sway along the lanes to the tune, and he nearly stopped worrying.

“Really, this is quite nice, isn’t it, Angel? The weather’s brisk, but the sun’s out. I’ve missed trips like this with you. I know it used to be by bus, but the wind feels therapeutic in a way. Just the two of us.”

“The scenery in the Commonwealth these days isn’t all bad.”

But he couldn’t wholly get his mind off their destination. He couldn’t even begin to speculate what to anticipate. After two centuries left to run without maintenance, there was no telling if the base’s robotics and defenses would even operate correctly, if even run at all. He didn’t like the odds that the Rust Devils had already taken the base and now occupied it. The whole trip to Lowell would be for nothing, if he couldn’t get on base, and they might as well double back to Billerica and take Bogey home to Sanctuary Hills right then.

They zipped under an overpass, and ‘Choly prayed they’d be able to speed right over the I-495 cloverleaf without having to take any of the access roads. Relief washed over him, that he didn’t have to deal with the Lowell Connector. The interstate signs had all either fallen or faded beyond legibility. He checked his map on his Pip-Boy, and looked back at the miles of crumbling asphalt still ahead of them. They’d just passed Route 129: just over halfway there from the golf course. He nodded thoughtfully, and slacked a bit in his scrutiny of the thoroughfare for a ways.

“Shall we take the Chelmsford South exit, or press on to the Chelmsford-Lowell intersection?”

“Taking I-495 would nearly triple our travel distance. We might have to, but let’s try sticking to Route 3 for now.”

“Noted.”

Ignoring the off ramp, they crossed over the 3-495 interchange. The well-rehearsed, unmarked exit for Chelmsford Road came up, and at a distance they could tell that the Route 3 overpass ahead had been extensively blockaded. Angel need not mention its concern as they got off the highway, as they both readily noted the high wood and steel wall which barricaded the Northeast half of the intersection. Several people stood watch atop the Red Rocket on the Southeast corner, and began to fire on the two of them as they slowed just enough to take the left turn under Route 3. ‘Choly looked back and his stomach lurched. Three bipedal robots sped toward them.

“All arms and legs in!” Angel yelled.

They barreled beneath the overpass, under which the raiders had constructed barricades and corrugated metal shanties. They didn’t slow enough to do more than draw fire. One of the mishmash robots slammed into the wall of one of the dwellings with a loud crash, only to keep running nearly unhindered. It wasn’t until ‘Choly looked back a second time to attempt aiming at their pursuants, that he recognized the very unmistakably human skulls mounted as face plates on these things. He fired at them, but his hands shook too badly, and he clutched tighter to Angel rather than try again.

“You can’t go any faster, can you!” ‘Choly pleaded.

“I’m going as fast as I can, Sir!”

Angel fired all three lasers at once at one of the robots, and it crumpled in a half-molten mess. The other two closed in on them.

The nearly humanoid proportions of the things, combined with the skull plates... These things had been Assaultrons. One of them steadied a limb toward them, for it to erupt flames. ‘Choly screamed when he could feel the heat nearly reach him. He looked behind him only long enough to confirm he wasn’t on fire, and resumed doing his best not to hyperventilate. Angel continued firing, but the remaining once-Assaultrons managed to dodge its aim. The other once-Assaultron fired with its ocular laser and connected with one of Angel’s ocular lenses.

They got about five hundred feet down the street before veering off it in favor of the bald expanse of field, and they followed the high barbwire hurricane fence at full speed. In no time, they approached the guard house at the front of the Deenwood Compound. Though unoccupied, the biometric scanner still swept over ‘Choly and Angel, and the boom barrier permitted them through. They looked back to find the two robots that had chased them had doubled back to return to their base.

‘Choly hoped that meant Deenwood wasn’t under Rust Devil occupation.

“Are you all right, Mister Carey?”

“I’ll be better once we’re inside...”

They slowed a bit, but remained vigilant, as they came up to the second checkpoint. To either side of the inner fence stood a pair of high turret towers. ‘Choly saw a Mister Gutsy coming to them. He holstered his pistol and dismounted with his cane in hand.

“This is a secure government facility!” the Gutsy announced in a strident scorn. “State your identity and intent, or we WILL fire on you!”

“Captain-- Captain Alan Carey.” ‘Choly gulped for air and did his best to stand up straight and salute the Gutsy. “Deenwood Pharm Corps. This is Angel, issued to me by the DIA.” Angel, too, stated its designation, which came in a string of numbers ‘Choly had never memorized in the first place.

The army green Handy eyed the two of them in silence for entirely too long.

“Intent!”

“I, ah! Yes. I was-- Reporting to active duty.”

“You are two hundred years LATE, Captain Carey. And not even close to wearing regulation uniform. Not to mention what you’ve allowed become of your Mister Handy compatriot.” The gate’s magnetic mechanisms deployed with a low hum, and the boom barriers lifted as before. ‘Choly sighed and re-mounted Angel, and the Gutsy led them inside the vast concrete facility proper. “Forgive my gruffness, Captain. It’s wonderful to have you back. General Francis will be elated to speak with you.”

“General--” ‘Choly’s face couldn’t help but screw up as they entered the Robotics wing. “ _General_ Francis?” He hadn’t expected nuclear survivors, and for Captain Francis to have lived long enough to start a line of descendants to inherit the base just about beat any unlikelihood he could have imagined possible.

Still, he’d been on premises a good fifteen minutes by that point, and within base walls five of it--and he hadn’t seen a single living thing, person or otherwise. A mixture of Mister Gutsies, Eyebots, and Protectrons moved about in his peripheral fringes, but none of them engaged the three of them as the Gutsy led the way. Maybe this General Francis was her Handy... or a Sentry she’d programmed... or...

They arrived at the Control Room of the Robotics wing, where a uniformed ghoul worked on a powered-down Eyebot on a workbench. The Gutsy approached.

“Captain Carey has arrived, ma’am. I’ve brought him to you for debriefing.”

Her half-shaven blonde head picked up to glare at ‘Choly as he dismounted again. He glared back, in shock. Keloid scars wired all over her body, and almost none of her nose or earlobes remained. Her voice was viscous and rasping, but still rang with command.

“Thank you, Green Seven. You may return to your normal duties.”

“Yes, ma’am!” It exited, leaving the three of them alone.

The two continued to stare at one another for some time before ‘Choly slowly walked up to her. He stuttered out broken, stupid laughter and collapsed to hugging her tight. He couldn’t help the tears when she hugged him back. After a solid minute, she shoved him back to get a good look at him up close.

“Forgive the exclamation, but how the FUCK are you standing here in front of me, Carey?”

“I could ask you the same question, _General_.” He removed his glasses and gave her a tired smile, and wiped his cheeks with his sleeve.

“Is that... a Vault Suit? Fuck.” She began to circle him. “What in God’s name happened to your Handy?”

“I happened to it. Repairs and upgrades were necessary to make the trip up from Concord. Is... is it all right for me to sit, ma’am?” She waved at the workbench stool, and he thanked her. He didn’t want to have to talk about Vault 111, but a brief explanation seemed like the only option. “It’s a Vault Suit, yes. They built a vault near where I moved after Anchorage. I’m the only one that survived what the vault did to its residents. Cryogenics. I think the equipment started failing after two hundred years, and the system tried to wake everyone up... but it was... just me--”

She leaned on the workbench beside him with a knowing frown.

“My heart goes out to you, having to live through that. I’ve heard some _terrible_ things about the different experiments Vault-Tec ran on its residents. You don’t have to tell me anything further.”

“Thank you for not pressing me for details, ma’am. It’s only been a few months. It hasn’t been easy to adjust to... everything, honestly.”

“...What are you doing here?” She half-expected him to reciprocate her curiosity, but appreciated that he hadn’t.

“I had a feeling there was something unresolved here. Like there was a project we were supposed to start, except the bombs happened first.” He sniffed and put his glasses back on, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t believe anyone survived...”

Francis squinted at him, and leaned nearer.

“Forgive me for asking, but I’m worried. The cane, and... you were riding your Handy on the way in.”

“The circumstances that have made it possible for me to stand before you alive today also damaged me severely. Angel’s operating not just as my Handy, but as my wheelchair, ma’am.”

“--Oh, cut the appellations,” she dismissed, blowing the stress of the conversation away like smoke. “You’re acting like you’ve never met me before.”

“Sorry. Barring Angel, you’re the... second familiar face I’ve found since I woke up? I honestly was starting to get used to the idea that I outlived everyone.”

She softened.

“...I can relate to that. I was the only Pharm Corps staff on base to survive the radiation. The base was designed to withstand a nuclear blast. But we’re close enough to where the bomb hit New Hampshire that it might as well have been a direct hit. The base itself was unscathed, but the residential block got hammered. I... I don’t know if you’d call being ghoulified surviving.” She snorted a wheeze through her open nasal cavity and gave him a shit-eating grin. “Repairing that Eyebot can wait. You still lush as ever? ‘Cause damn if I couldn’t use a drink about now.”

He checked the time on his Pip-Boy, and mirrored her grin.

“Supposing it’s nine forty-seven somewhere.”


	7. Old Fashioned (Ch40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. That’s… not an old fashioned, is it, Liv?

The dark walls, pale carpeting, and little furnishings of the general’s office belied the actual dimensions of the somewhat small space. At her ebony dry bar, General Francis poured the two of them each an old fashioned, with dried rind curls 'Choly imagined were mutfruit. The ghoul placed one in ‘Choly’s gracious hands where he sat, and took hers to her leather office chair opposite the desk. She took a sip and slicked at her side-shaven asymmetrical blonde french twist with a tense sigh.

“Call me Olivia. Please. I hate the rank and pomp of being the last breathing wretch on base. Ghoul or not, I’m still a person, you know?”

‘Choly nearly murmured a whooped _and then some_. His tongue sneaked against the back of his teeth behind a faint smile. He lingered in the numbness of an iced drink in his palms, and stared into the handcrafted cocktail a little too long before remembering it was for drinking.

“Olivia, it’s... really been just you here for all... or most of this time?” He held the short glass to his cheek, eyes glazing out of focus. “--Gosh, ice. You’ve got a working ice machine.”

“Imagine if you’ve been milling around for a few months now, you’ve come to appreciate most prewar commodities as current day luxuries.” Olivia downed about a third of her drink before setting it down to lace her leathery hands on the desk. “It’s been just me and the robotics fleets for a very long time, yes. I’ve whiled the decades doing maintenance on them all. I consider them a sense of found family. They keep plugging alongside me, and they keep me plugging.”

She drew a cigarette from the silver case on the desktop, and lit it with a gold flip lighter. After taking a deliberate puff, she offered up both with a genial gaze. Not to shy from her hospitality, he nodded and followed suit. A long exhale melted him into a comforted disillusionment.

“It really has been a jarring adjustment. Especially not having soap every day. Menthols and muddled cognac on the rocks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to coax me into a tough patch.”

“You’ll find a great deal of the amenities on base have been repaired and maintained.” A grin pulled her thin lips across her teeth and she sat back, sustaining eye contact. “Deenwood in every way has kept me busy.”

“And the Rust Devils?” he asked over his sipping. His attentive oily eyes skimmed her wasting features, to skirt the acknowledgement she hadn’t dismissed his supposition. “They’re keeping you even busier?”

“Don’t tell me they’ve expanded operations outside Lowell,” she growled, suddenly furious. “I’ve lost twelve robots to them just this year. Bastards took to the RobCo Towers. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to stay as ahead of them as I have been, further encrypting the Sentry Bots and Assaultrons especially. And the front doors, of course.” When he watched her expectantly, she snorted through another slug of her cocktail. “RobCo Towers was the company’s home base for Pip-Boy development and manufacture.”

“Encrypted the... front doors?” He frowned thoughtfully, somewhat distant. “Aside from confrontation with a Mister Gutsy, I didn’t have any trouble getting on premises.”

“Your bars have RFID encryption technology in them.” With a sneer, she pointed her smoke hand at his Pharm Corps coat. “The system’s biometric scanners have a two-factor screening process. You were smart enough, to turn up in enough of your uniform, to look the part of an officer--and lucky enough, to still be human enough, for the system to be able to match your genetic scan. Honestly, when I heard an officer had made it on base, I thought the Rust Devils might have figured out a way to sheepskin their way in here.”

“I guess it is a bit of luck, that my service uniform survived all this time. It’s one of the few belongings I still have. I don’t recognize the flavor of these bitters, but damn if this isn’t smooth cognac.”

Olivia topped off his glass with more cognac from the decanter on her desk, which he accepted greedily.

“The licorice, or the mint? It’s some East Central Commonwealth label. I like it well enough. These days, you tend to take what you can get your hands on. The cognac, though. That’s my favorite.” She shrugged in the direction of her liquor cabinetry, uninvested in getting up to scrutinize the exact identity of the liqueur. “Don’t discount, either, that you still have your Handy. A lot of my maintenance on Deenwood’s robots hasn’t just been to keep them running. It’s so they can continue defending themselves, and stay out of raider hands. To this day I haven’t determined a more effective approach than to be proactive. They just keep trying.”

Angel had stayed out in the hall to chat with robots it hadn’t seen in two hundred years.

“I wouldn’t be alive right now, if Angel weren’t with me. I know that much.” ‘Choly picked the desiccated rind curl out of his drink and chewed at it. “I’ve had my run-in already with raiders myself. I’ve half a mind to think Lexington’s still on fire because of me. Ha!”

Her dark eyes wilded, more punch-drunk from delivery than she was from the spirits.

“You can’t just drop that on me and leave it.”

His sheepishness poorly contained how oddly tickled he felt then by such a traumatic experience. Unmistakably, the physical condition of his company had everything to do with his craving to impress.

“After I came out of the vault outside Concord, I holed up in the Walden Drugs in Lexington. I got along with the raiders in the Corvega factory for a few months. They... pushed me around, and I... I.” A self-conscious grin tugged at him, unable to tell if the modus operandi were appropriate to divulge. He noticed he’d let the cherry fall off his unattended cigarette onto the leg of his Vault Suit. He brushed away the ashes and deposited the half-smoked thing in the crescent shaped ashtray. “...In so many words, I overdosed their leader on opiates. So they Molotov cocktailed the pharmacy while I was asleep, and chased me out of town.”

Olivia’s head kicked back in a sharp, barking cackle, and she only calmed herself enough to start on a fresh cigarette.

“Sounds like you’re more uniquely suited to the Wastelander life than you give yourself credit for. And believe me when I tell you, you don’t have to skirt talking about CM anymore. It hasn’t been restricted to your pay grade for a hundred eighty years, and the DIA’s bit the dust just like the rest of the government proper.”

‘Choly’s face slacked in culpability. He avoided eye contact a tic, and set down his half-finished half-cocktail to fold his hands under his legs.

“I’m proud of the way I’ve adapted Syringer rifle darts. CM’s... surprisingly versatile weaponized.”

She gave him a sleazy, approving grin when he admitted what she’d intuited.

“I don’t remember that we got along all that well back in the day, but damn if I’m not glad to see you. Not speaking ill of my chrome family, but I don’t get to see a flesh and body face all too often these days. It’s not going to be easy for you to get back out, now that you’re in, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Maybe after you get some rest and think on it, we can form some kind of a game plan to deal with these assholes down the street once and for all?”

Struck dumb that she’d not torn into him for what he’d done with his military intelligence, he sat frozen at length. He found himself staring at the chrome Pip-Boy on her left wrist, vaguely nagged by his inability to identify the model. Her proposition soaked into him slowly, and he picked his drink back up to work on finishing it. He sucked on an ice cube and feigned anything but total adoration.

“You said that the residential block got hit hard by the fallout. Is... any of it still standing?”

“Most of it, yeah. But it wasn’t prepped to shield that heavy a rad barrage, is what I meant. The rads have since aired out of the majority of the lot. You’ve got your pick of any townhouse on the lot, except mine.” She straightened, drawn back to reality a ways. “There’s just the one thing. Only drink or wash in the water from the compound. Residential plumbing still runs for the most part, but you’re a smoothskin. Don’t risk the rads.”

He choked on the acknowledgement of the fundamental difference between the two of them with a nervous chuckle. The supposition she might be immune to radiation titillated him.

“...About that. I’ve... come across a good number of ghouls since I woke up. But you’re the first fully rational one I’ve met. I think I’m only now finally understanding what people meant when they called a ghoul _feral_.”

Olivia gave him an uncomfortable grimace.

“Fortunately, you won’t have to deal with ferals on base. Deenwood is monstrously secure, so nothing can get in. They make me a might bit skittish myself. Don’t like the thought of encounters with them being only a bubble off looking in a mirror. Anyway...” She cleared her throat to punctuate that she’d noticed just how much he’d been caught staring, and he flinched. “Enough nightmare talk. We have an early morning of it. I still keep military hours, even though I’m the only non-robot here. Makes the robots happy, so it makes me happy. Habits die hard.”

“--Don’t they ever. I’m just glad that, now that I’m back, we’re not right back glued to cooking up CM and testing formulations on soldiers. Chase’s R&D’s the nightmare talk for me.”

She topped off her glass one more time, and ate her dried cherry.

“No, we’re far past that now, aren’t we?” Olivia rose and ushered him out of her office, meeting objection. “Imagine you don’t need me to show you around, even two hundred years later. The Gutsies and Handies can help you, if you’ve forgotten your way. I typically stay close to the Robotics wing, if you need me. We’ll meet back here at, say, oh-six? That’s plenty of time for breakfast first, mm?”

His head slurried with him standing. He glanced at his Pip-Boy. Already seven o’clock. He gave her an uncertain but obeisant nod with a little too much rattle in it, too cowardly to press her continued company.

“Goodnight, Carey.”

He stopped her from pushing the heavy paneled wooden door shut, and he continued holding out his arm a good ways after doing so, tottering on his feet.

“I, you. You said you prefer to be called _Olivia_. I’ve made a bit of a name for myself in the past few months.” She looked to him with attentive fatigue. “Melancholy. ...‘Choly.”

After thinking on it a moment, she patted him on the cheek.

“Really rings what’s survived of your accent. Goodnight, _Melancholy_.”

The door clicked shut, and he heard it lock.

When Angel didn’t come up on its own, he belted out an insistent, deep whistle that cut down the corridor both ways. And he waited to be escorted... _home_. He shuddered, and couldn’t quite say why.


	8. Vacant Hours (Ch41)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a wasteland survival fic, does this chapter constitute schmoop?

Locked up in his head as they walked along the modular concrete hallways of the Research and Development wing, ‘Choly had just shared with Angel what Olivia had described of the base, and their plans for the next day. He wanted to avoid this building as much as possible.

“Sir, allow me to take you across grounds,” Angel insisted alongside him. “You just installed these handles and footrests on me, and you should--”

“--I’m fhhine,” he slurred, waving a hand at the Handy. “Just trying to draft the order of... how to go about settling back in. How to cover the least distance. Optimize the path to a bed, if I can.”

“You don’t seem fine, but I won’t press it... Perhaps you’d like to start with the enlisted barracks, and work your way over to the officers’ barracks? You could... start things off with a nice, hot shower? Hm-hm?”

He stuttered awe under his breath in Russian, and tried to ignore any suggestion that he looked as inebriated as he felt.

“They have _hot water_?” he mouthed at Angel.

“Deenwood hosts so many things! Come along now. It’s already past nineteenth hour, and you’ve told Miss Olivia that we’ll rejoin at sixth tomorrow. We must get you washed and dressed and fed.” It chortled anxiously. “Thank you, for at least letting me escort you.”

“There’s just something about being on base again that’s making me feel... _right_ ,” he defended, implicitly begging that it let him enjoy the moment. “You’re more than just my mobility, Angel. So much more.”

Halfway across the courtyard, a Mister Gutsy intercepted them.

“Captain,” it grunted in affirmative. “I’ve been tasked with running errands for you tonight. Give the order.”

“Ah, yes... Green Three?” he fielded, gauging by the white lettering on its dull green side. He’d never really noticed non-personnel G.A. robots went by designations, but it made sense. “I... I suppose it’s gauche for me to be on base in anything but uniform, all things considered. Could you outfit me fresh?”

“Yes, Sir!” G-3′s triplicate golden ocular lenses scrutinized his form before stiffening in place. “Measurements taken.”

“That’s all for now. Angel and I are headed to the showers at the enlisted barracks.”

“Deliver the uniform to Mister Handy nicknamed Angel, at the enlisted barracks’ baths. Roger.” It sped off toward the storage building which stood between the R&D wing they’d just exited and the Robotics wing--the only three hangar-like concrete structures on the property.

The two of them arrived at the enlisted barracks at the North end of the property. To the left lay the soldiers’ quarters, while to the right lay the community showers. The enlisted mess hall stood separate from this building behind it. Without hesitation he turned right, then right again into the men’s side, and handed Angel his cane so that he could disrobe. He deposited his Pip-Boy, visor, orthotics, hairpins, and clothing on a bench in the changing area. The notion of a working shower possessed him, carrying one step in front of the last, and before he knew it, he was turning the handle and standing directly under the water without even testing the temperature first, or checking that he was, in fact, all alone with Angel keeping watch.

Soon both the water and his relieved bliss ran hot down his cheeks. He shut his trembling eyes and lifted his face to the apparent water pressure. He left his mouth open a moment to trap water, which he squirted out for effect. After some time his head dipped, to let the hot water stream down his aching neck and back. Angel eventually interrupted his detachment from reality. Being handed his toiletries got him crying like at a wedding.

Lathering his hair, ‘Choly thought to his initial impression to encountering Olivia again like this. Her smart style with one side shaved that apparently compensated for a balding patch, her thick phlegmatic voice, her exposed turbinates, her... _her_... He really was attracted to ghouls now, wasn’t he? He remembered his promise to Angel-- _use Rad-X_ \--and ribald notions of both Olivia and Hawthorne alike melted him apart where he stood.

He _stood_. Angel was right. He didn’t remember standing this much in a day, in months. His blood pressure didn’t feel like it had dipped or spiked. His posture didn’t feel especially infirm. He still ached, and the cane still made the going easier... but he didn’t quite feel himself.

 _I should be crumpled over by now, bathing on a folding chair_ , he reasoned. _I spent my morning repairing Bogey. It told me about the Rust Devils. I blew an hour on a bucket of golf balls. I traveled nearly two hours atop Angel without stopping, and avoided a Rust Devil attack right when we got to Chelmsford. I found out one of my coworkers survived and is still alive, and we got drunk..._ “And now I’m standing in the first hot shower I’ve had in two hundred years, waiting for the water to run cold and slap me in the face so I wake up. Too much for one day. Too much in so many ways.”

When he finally turned the water off, he dried himself and sat on the bench in the changing area. The Gutsy had brought a folded khaki uniform and a set of skivvies to match, combat boots in his size, and also a navy bathrobe. He slipped on the tee, underwear, and robe once his skin was dry enough, but didn’t tie the waist. His eyes widened as he toweled at his hair.

“Or maybe the problem is, I feel exactly like myself.”

He favored the ankle stability of a boot, over low quarters like his oxfords. Lacking confirmation that any living persons but Olivia and himself existed on this base, he remained in the bathrobe for the rest of the night. As he put his Pip-Boy back on, he noticed his orthotics, Vault Suit, and Pharm Corps coat had gone missing, only because his nameplate and bars lay on the bench atop the folded fresh uniform.

“Did G-3 take my effects, Angel?” he called.

“G-3 said that it waited until you had a convenient time to change clothes, to take them. It boasted that it knew a thing or two about getting out blood stains. _As do I !_ I tried to tell it that I could operate laundry equipment with my sensors disabled, but it insisted that I stay by you, as your escort.” Angel reentered the baths to hover before him. “My word, Sir. I... I have to say how good it is to be back at Deenwood. We robots might have our exceptions with one another, but we were a complex and thriving network of chums. Just as you befriended your colleagues.”

‘Choly stared at the rectangular brooch of metal and brightly dyed embroidered ribbon, signifying ten years of stripes and pips mounted together. What did he really have to show for his decade of service? His throat caught at length, until he pinned his nameplate and bars to the robe in lieu of his coat.

“I... didn’t have friends,” he finally said in passing, starting toward the front door. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Finally hungry enough to do something about it. Shall we see if the officers’ mess hall’s furnished?”

They crossed South to the officers’ side of the property in the brisk night air. Entering the mess hall, he encountered a modestly cozy arrangement of vinyl-upholstered chrome chairs in sets of four at eight round tables. Large fake potted plants tucked themselves to each corner, and beside each support column. To one side of the space, he’d have found the beverage offerings, while to the other, he found an à la carte window winged by a pair of Eat-O-Tronic machines. In one, he found MREs, and in the other, he would have found desserts. After his experience with the pharmacy break room, it relieved him to find no moldy remains in the vending slots; in the same stroke, he praised the base’s stockpile of perfectly preserved rations. He eagerly selected the beef tips and mashed potatoes package, but before he could get it open, the Mister Handy at the window hemmed and held out a pincer.

“Monsieur, if I could get that for you,” it began, in a French accent.

“...Yes, of course.” He handed it over dumbly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure!” In a flash, it produced a tray with the now-heated contents of the MRE on a plate, including the instant cocoa packet. “Bon appetit!”

“...I could have... Oh, no matter.” Angel zipped over to at least pull the chair for ‘Choly. “Sir, while you dine, I’d love the chance to catch up with Louis, if I may. I’ll be within earshot.” It didn’t await confirmation before darting behind the swinging door in the far corner.

The potatoes couldn’t help tasting like cardboard two hundred years later, but the beef tendered up like it had never been preserved in a jerky-like state, and the gravy had him lolling back in the chair to savor it. The soy-based cocoa struck him as an innocent indulgence amid the options he’d had in prior months. The hot mug in his hands comforted him, and he couldn’t help but smile dopily at hearing the two Mister Handies in the kitchen chatting and laughing unintelligibly.

_Angel’s not lonely here._

'Choly took his tray back to the window once he was done, and he and Angel thanked Louis and bid it goodnight. The walk from the mess hall was short, but was incumbent of the most anticipated part of the night for him. The officers’ residential block was a set of three identical rows of twelve two-story rowhouses apiece. Habitually, he walked up the three steps of the second row’s third door, like always, and opened the front door on bated breath. Standing in the entryway, he flicked on the light switch to find the electricity worked, and he smiled in distraction as he took in the thick layer of dust on every surface. The dark green velour couch and armchair were still there, as were the hanging floor lamp, the coffee table, and the kitchen table and chairs.

“I have my work cut out for me,” Angel beamed. It shut the door behind them and immediately set to dusting off the living room.

Compulsion seized him again, and he mounted the creaking stairs at a persistent, lurching pace until he stood in the doorway of what had once been his bedroom. The queen size mattress lay bare before him, in tact. His throat caught again, aghast, and he slumped against the door frame to gawk. It took a few tries before he successfully swallowed. Angel came up behind him after a spell.

“Oh Sir, are you all right?”

He looked to it with a haunted desperation.

“Nothing has felt this right since I thawed.”

He sniffed, and leveraged with his cane to stand fully again. He requested a canister of water, his toothbrush and toothpaste, mouthwash, and hairbrush, which Angel obliged, and he vanished into the upstairs bathroom closing the door behind him.

As he brushed his teeth, he stared at himself in the hoary glass mounted on the wall. A single crack ran from one corner to the other, right through the middle, but for the most part, the mirror functioned like a mirror. He nearly felt like the whole base had been transfigured by some perverse stasis just like he had, all but sheltered from the end of the world and here awaiting him all this time. He shivered and cinched his robe, then spat and moved on to the mouthwash.

 _Simple hygiene really is a luxury now, isn’t it?_ he thought to himself as he rinsed his face.

He came out of the bathroom to find that Angel had made his bed with the hospital blanket and pillows before vanishing back downstairs. He sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots and socks, and brushed out his hair which had finally dried by then. The brush went to the nightstand, and he hung the robe on the hook on the bathroom door. He turned out the lights, and passed out face-down in anticipation of the first quality sleep he’d gotten in two hundred years.


	9. Trouble-Shooting (Ch42)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Choly, slow down. You're advancing the plot.

Kitchen sounds beneath ‘Choly woke him. He glanced to his Pip-Boy for the time. 4:47. He rubbed at his face. Angel had covered him in his sleep. He slumped upright, then wandered into the bathroom before heading downstairs.

Angel had opened all the windows downstairs overnight to air out the dust. The Handy hummed pleasantly to itself at the pantry. ‘Choly smiled to himself as he ambled through the living room and across the crusty, deteriorated low-pile red carpet, to sit at the small linoleum kitchen table.

“Good morning, Mister Carey! I was just about to rouse you, when I heard the plumbing. Oh, please tell me you rested well.”

“I rested... amazingly.” He nodded appreciatively at the presentation of coffee in his Billerica Golf Course mug. “You’ve been busy.”

“My apologies that breakfast isn’t elaborate.” It presented plated reconstituted egg powder with some hard yellow cheese and a mound of nondescript fruit preserves. “But I’ve made sure you have your morning coffee, at least.”

“Where did you get eggs?” He nearly didn’t think it could be eggs.

“It’s another MRE. G-3 was by already with your dry cleaning. I asked it to bring you an MRE fitting for breakfast fare, and also a percolator.”

With a mouthful of egg and cheese, ‘Choly gazed, half-awake, at the percolator beside the stove. Vaguely, he recalled that MREs may have precipitated his concocting Melancholia in the first place. The eggs weren’t bad. They were just... wrong. Scrambled eggs were supposed to be chunky and fluffy, but these were almost like aerated rubber. It was better than the Yum Yum smoothie. Just about anything was better than the Yum Yum smoothie. He washed it down, and sank into his chair.

“I want to try to dry the silt beans as soon as possible. Preferably dry roasting in the oven, I think. We’ll need a way to grind them.”

“I take it the meal last night gave you trouble.”

“Yeah, and this one probably will too. It’s got nothing to do with the taste. I have to eat something, though.”

The fruit preserves were neither tart nor sweet. He ate them anyway.

He glanced around the kitchen and living room. Angel seemed to have unloaded a majority of its storage to the locations typical of such items: magazines on the coffee table, rations in the pantry, and toiletries in the bathroom upstairs he realized. His syringer rifle jutted out of the golf bag in the front corner, an odd juxtaposition to what could have otherwise felt like just another day in 2070. He supposed Angel still kept all the chems inside itself, though. He picked up his plate and stood in the living room, to look at the periodicals on the coffee table. The history textbook lay among them.

“You said G-3 stopped by?” He sat on the edge of the couch to finger through the book.

“I didn’t want to wake you, so I received your dry cleaning. Everything is hung or folded upstairs in your closet.”

He murmured in affirmative, and set his food in his lap to stare at the photograph Jared had shown him. _Figure 16.4, ‘Major Johnston and Three of His Pharm Corps Chemists.’ Left to right: Second Lieutenant Gary Sydney, and Captains Olivia Francis and Alan Carey. Major Theodore Johnston to the right.’_ The Major had been a grizzled old man with peppered hair and a bulletproof mustache, while 2Lt. Sydney with a slicked short dark undercut had likely been the youngest officer on base. His brow furrowed before slacking as he stared at Olivia. With a heart-shaped face and a full head of blonde hair pulled back into a neat bun, she had a few inches on Carey, who stood beside her with his dark hair in a mussed french twist and his eyes half-hidden behind crescent-frame glasses. No, he remembered her. Structured, punctual, and paradoxically recalcitrant to spite her rank. If there’d been anyone Johnston had indicated express dislike of on base, it was Capt. Francis. Everyone had to mitigate between the two of them by proxy. Just as the military had overlooked his more glaring traits, they were just as desperate to keep someone as skilled and versed as she.

His finger traced at his chin scar, recalling the photo predated his receiving it. He hadn’t had friends on base because he hadn’t let himself. He’d stayed to himself. The hardback book shut. No, unless it came up in conversation, he wouldn’t bother Olivia with his relic, or how he got it. He set the empty dish in the sink and finished off his coffee, then vanished upstairs.

As indicated, his orthotics and uniform pieces lay in the drawers of the chest in the closet. He strung himself into his orthotics, which now shone white they had come so clean, and brushed his teeth and washed his face. He dully traced at the metal he’d applied to his bathrobe the night before, only to remove them and set them atop the closet chest. The wool uniform, combat boots, and tucked four-in-hand khaki necktie came next. His hair swept up into the neatest french twist he’d achieved in recent memory, owing to the decent lighting and access to a mirror. He retrieved the white coat from its hanging bag, and returned the nameplate and bars to it, to wear it. The full length closet mirror had shattered, so he sized himself up in the bathroom. The echoes of 2077 snagged at him, and he loathed a moment what his work day might bring, until he could reassure himself that Olivia had sworn they no longer needed to test CM on soldiers. With a sardonic breath, he went downstairs in search of his bracers and holsters, to complete the ensemble.

‘Choly and Angel went to the General’s office, to meet G-7 waiting in the hall.

“The General got restless,” it informed, leading the way to the Robotics wing. “She’s always working on something.”

When they arrived, Olivia had powered down a Sentry Bot and crouched to do maintenance on one of its three mecanum limbs. An Assaultron stood nearby. G-7 excused itself, having accomplished its shepherding, and silence besides mechanical operations subsumed the space.

“Good morning,” ‘Choly began, hands laced behind him. He stiffened in the presence of two of the military’s most powerful robotic models.

The ghoul looked up, but didn’t stand, focused on her task.

“Take it the food was satisfactory,” she commented, deadpan.

“It would be apples to oranges, to compare an MRE to Angel’s cooking.”

Angel scoffed at him and he grinned at it with a side-eye. She guffawed.

“Since it’s just me, I don’t really bother much with getting meat and produce on base. I’m fine with the bicentennial MREs, with the occasional indulgences. They’re edible, and there’s enough variety left. It’s not like I’ve been stuck eating InstaMash every day, three meals a day, all this time.”

“--But don’t you miss things that can’t be in a Meal Ready to Eat? Salads? Or--”

“--Around the time the world ended, I took my grieving, Carey. _Melancholy_. I don’t need the pampering of fresh food, or... sweets... or a... rare steak...” She tossed down her crescent wrench and sat cross-legged. “Oh, who’m I kidding? I’ve just gotten so used to it, that I stopped questioning it. It’s convenient, and it’s still edible, and it’s not junk.”

“It sounds like you’re fishing for me to give you a reason to do something about the food,” he smirked.

“It’s certainly not something I’d fix, just for my own sake alone, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe once we contend with the potential security threat, we can work on improving the quality of the base’s food supplies. I feel like we both could probably stand to take better care of ourselves.”

Olivia’s features tightened just enough to notice, before she stood, and patted the Sentry’s thigh plate with a resigned satisfaction. She rounded to its back, and uncoiled the key prong of her Pip-Boy to plug into the robot.

“Maybe so.”

The Sentry powered back on with a series of hisses from both mechanism and steam, and it lurched as its hydraulics kicked in.

“Good morning, General,” it grunted in a low broken digitized voice.

“Good morning, S-2. I’ve replaced that cracked roller, and I rotated your belts. You’re free to return to regular operation.”

“Affirmative. Maintenance valued.”

The Sentry rolled out of the garage doors with unexpected agility for something as enormous and bulky as what amounted to a robotic tank. ‘Choly gave it a wide berth, straightening on his cane. Meanwhile, Olivia had begun to circle Angel with her hands in her back pockets.

“Parts from Handy, Gutsy, and Nanny,” she remarked, nodding. “You’ve gotten parts from all three models cooperating smoothly. Impressive. Angel, what’s your current ammo count?”

“Miss Olivia, I have twenty-seven 5.56mm bullets, and 59 fusion cells.”

“Oh, no. This won’t do.” She about faced and waved them to follow her to the next hangar over: Storage. They trailed behind her as she skimmed aisles for mental notes. As she spoke next, she produced the indicated items. “All three tendrils utilize laser attachments. You need at least a hundred fusion cells on hand. And I won’t accept anything less than a full 5.56mm belt.”

“Thank you!” It loaded the ammunition into its attachments, handing off the 27 spare bullets to her in exchange for the full belt of 500.

“Always thought any Handy could be a Gutsy at heart,” she grinned. “Angel, you’re a beautiful piece of work. Really something else."

“It’s all thanks to Mister Carey,” it insisted in continued gratitude.

"You deserve the best,” he deflected, stressed to realize that the Assaultron had followed them.

“Oh, Melancholy. Lighten up.” Olivia gestured at the Assaultron. “This is Helen. Helen, Melancholy. Sorry I didn’t introduce you two earlier. I forget everyone doesn’t already know everyone.”

“H-- hello, Helen.”

“I won’t hurt you unless you deserve it,” the cyclopean robot greeted in a deep, coy tone.

A nervous laugh trickled out of him.

“The army didn’t issue me a robot like they did you, so I appointed Helen mine myself.”

“I see.” His composure slowly cemented. “You... mentioned my accent last night.”

She paused to find the best wording she could muster.

“We all knew you’re red, ‘Choly. You weren’t the only one of us that passed for an American. The Feds got real desperate in the final years before the Great War. Reached for just about any asset they could grab, including contracting well outside the Thirteen Commonwealths. You’re fortunate that of all your colleagues to survive, you’re stuck with one that worked alongside you long enough and closely enough to know you’re a loyal fuck.” She leaned in with a quiet grin. “Look, I’ve read the DIA papers on just about everybody who frequented this chem pit. I know you’re only _half_ Russian. The other half behaved itself, never betrayed us. You’ve proved yourself just as much as any of us did.”

The truth rang in his ears like gushing water. What _was_ his motivation? He’d told Jared he’s loyal to security and safety, and _money_ in lieu of the first two. Confident the dollar no longer carried any weight, he wondered if how he’s changed as a person since Lexington was for the better. It hadn’t even been a week, and already his priorities had been turned on head. More than anything, they had to work toward preventing the raiders from overtaking and occupying the Deenwood Compound. The Rust Devils would abuse the chem resources far worse than the Deenwood chemists had, and in the wrong hands, Deenwood’s robotics could easily decimate what was left of the Commonwealth. The base was viably his new home now--the sense of belonging had not been stronger since he’d thawed out--and Olivia’s reply had him grasping blind for any way to prove what he was willing to do to defend it.

“It’s not just the two of us and all these robots, right? Surely not. And even if there really isn’t anyone else on base, there has to have been survivors in Lowell? Or Chelmsford? I... didn’t get a good look at the state of Billerica on the way up here, but I wouldn’t be shy to double back if it meant we could drum up allies.”

“Chelmsford and the Highlands are crawling with ferals. Most of Lowell and Pawtucketville’s wildlife. Pelts and Merrilurks. There’s a pocket of trappers in Centralville that call themselves the Furriers...” She trailed off into a frown. “I... don’t know if I like where this is going.”

“Would they help us? If I can get up there, would they talk with me?”

Somehow, she found cause to warm to the idea.

“I haven’t made contact with them in a long time. It’s been since before the Rust Devils settled in. Too nervous to leave Deenwood on automatic, especially without knowing how far the Rust Devils’ territory expanded. I don’t know. It’s a long shot. They keep to themselves. They’re descended from mill workers who survived since day one of the new world order.” She paced the stock aisles again, arms folded behind her. “The way’s dangerous without proper gear. You can’t cut North on Chelmsford Road and follow it up to O’Donnell Bridge, for a lot of reasons. The Devils recently took Back Central--from what my Eyebots have reported. You’re probably safest taking the West route across, and cutting across Rourke Bridge to follow the shore. Hermit crabs often hole up on O’Donnell Bridge, and believe me when I say you don’t want to know why I’m warning against encountering them if you can ever manage it.”

His face slacked. He hadn’t encountered any shellfish yet.

“If the insects got big, the crustaceans must have got enormous.”

She turned to grin at his naivete.

“Seeing it’s believing it, but you’re dead right. There’s another reason to favor Rourke Bridge. You need to go see Sticks. He lives at the Sampas Pavilion. Get him to go with you. He’s got clout with the Furriers’ sachem, Reese. Just you on your own, they might turn you away. But both of you? A much better shot.”

Doubt screwed up his face.

“What makes you think this guy will help us?”

“He’s helped me a dozen times. He’ll definitely grasp the stakes. And I’d warn you in advance, but you seemed less shaken that I’m a ghoul than you are I’m still kicking--he’s a ghoul, too. Try not to stare at him as much as you stare at me, all right? And don’t give the farm away, either. Negotiate without bartering, if at all possible.”

Caught admiring her, he poorly disguised his averted gaze with a cough.

“So you think it’s a good idea then?”

“We haven’t been able to outgun the Devils in two years. You know what an arms race looks like. You’re on the money, to propose calling in reinforcements. What’s important is, are you absolutely certain that you want to do this? You only just got to Deenwood, already flying to her defense.”

He glanced over to Helen, recalling the two savage robots that had torn after him and Angel on their way on base, and his mouth became a thin line.

“I don’t think we have another choice.”


	10. Ascending, Descending (Ch43)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearer, my god, to thee...
> 
> TW: Trypo, mental break, unreality, tampered food implied.

‘Choly sat back at his desk in his townhouse, thinking over his errand. Thirty minutes before, over a morning drink that somewhat resembled a Blood Mary in spirit, ‘Choly and Olivia had discussed what she believed he’d need. She had offered up a few clips of .38 bullets, and a box of sharpened pencils which now soaked downstairs in coolant. The Mister Gutsies had tried to fit him with combat armor, but his infirm joints couldn’t even bear the helmet. When he’d refused grenades ‘to shuck the damn hermit crabs, if God forbid, you encounter any,’ Olivia had insisted upon tweaking one of Angel’s lasers to exhibit incendiary properties. She’d sworn fire was a crucial weapon for anyone traveling along the river.

She’d also voiced surprise that ‘Choly hadn’t sought to hash out compensation for the task. Whether he believed it or not, he coolly told her that sometimes, peace of mind is worth more than money.

He chewed at a fountain pen, with the map screen of his Pip-Boy pulled up. The night before, Angel had laid out his belongings in every room of the townhouse, including the office, which now included his typewriter, and also the deathclaw hand and bloodbug proboscis. The Handy had expressed revulsion over what it perceived as ‘dead weight’ and requested never again to carry _pieces_ of corpses. He couldn’t entirely argue with the sentiment.

It was already eight. Provided they met no trouble along the way, the suggested route--to Voire, the Northeast Lowell location which Olivia had marked on his Pip-Boy map--wouldn’t take more than two hours each direction. He could be back on base before dark, if all the cards fell in his favor.

Olivia recommended traveling as light as possible, but something about the sentiment unsettled him in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. Was he reluctant to leave his belongings on base? No, it was the paranoia the Rust Devils would attack while he’s gone, and overwhelm Deenwood’s robotic defenses. He set his pen down to gripe at himself. In the event that happened, he should be more worried about Olivia and the base’s equity than his belongings. He’d lost almost everything in the pharmacy fire the week before. Leaving behind his belongings would posit a measure of his stability, an act of faith. There would be something to return to. Still, he insisted upon Angel keeping the history textbook and Merrick Index safe inside itself.

He committed to first aid and ammunition, a clipboard with pencil and paper, holotapes, cash and valuables in the event he had to barter, three MREs with utensils, and some water. ...And some liquor, in the event any of these folks weren’t the type to negotiate sober. He planned to take lunch once he arrived at the Sampas Pavilion, with the optimism to ply Sticks’s favor with the offer of a hot meal.

With his plan mostly cemented, he slipped on his visor and slung his syringer rifle to his back, the Nagant and his cane at his thigh, and the two headed out. No Rust Devils awaited their exit. He kept his .38 at the ready as they zipped down the two-lane street traveling West. Very few abandoned cars dotted the roads. Once they passed a schoolhouse, they turned North onto the residential thoroughfare. A mixture of Federal and Victorian architecture, with modest yard sizes, stretched both sides of the idyllic tree-swept road for some ways.

Demarcating Chelmsford from Lowell proper, they crossed the Route 3 overpass, of which a chunk the full width of one lane had fallen through. Commercial building strips sprang up intermixed with housing. The street dead ended, and they cut left along a street with an apartment complex to one side. Feral ghouls spilled out after them. Angel flew backwards to use its minigun attachment for the first time, and it successfully cut down easily half of them with one wave of bullets while still maintaining speed. The two knocked out enough of the ferals to outrun them by the time they passed the Hester’s Consumer Robotics. A bank lay at the corner of the next dead end, and they turned right to travel North again into another run of apartments and rowhouses.

“Ohh, that was almost too easy,” Angel sighed, still laughing. ‘Choly nearly didn’t hear it, his ears ringing from the rapid gunfire. He’d have to invest in ear protection, if he’d be relying on Angel using these new accessories with him atop it.

A Red Rocket came up on the right, and Lowell’s Super Duper Mart to the left. The memory of Lexington’s SDM jolted him.

“We can’t stop for groceries today,” he choked out. “Not even on the way back.”

“So be it. But don’t complain if dinner’s not to your liking.”

They passed a drugstore on the left before Rourke Bridge began, and ‘Choly absently deliberated if Walden Drugs had owned it. Crossing the bridge, Angel slowed between the two shoulderless high-barrier lanes to maneuver around the handful of vehicles that had rusted out with centuries of exposure directly above the Merrimack. ‘Choly glanced up and down river to either side of them, in awe that the river retained its idyllic beauty despite the scorched trees and demolished buildings which dotted its shores. The bridge dead ended opposite Claypit Brook Bowling Alley. They turned right onto the four-lane Pawtucket Boulevard.

By the time they passed a boathouse, they noticed they were being followed--or rather, chased. ‘Choly’s head whipped around to look behind when Angel fired its lasers at their pursuants, to find five very angry knuckle-walking finned creatures of unknown morphology.

“Angel--”

“I know, Sir--”

‘Choly shot at them, and they shot back--or rather, shot from their backs. One would stop to take aim, spread its arms out for support, and the tumescent growths mounded up from gaping pores in their back would fire off almost like mortar shells, to launch their larvae at the intruders. A larva connected and skittered up ‘Choly’s coat tails to try to chew up his neck, and he couldn’t get the too-many-legged crustaceanoid thing off him before it had gnawed the skin open. Behind them one of the adult creatures shrieked in fury at being lasered in the face.

The sound of glass shattering, and all the Merrilurks shrieking, distracted 'Choly from the pain, and the blood on his hand from the larva bite. He looked ahead of them to find a figure in faded gold longshoreman’s garb, chucking Molotov cocktails. Once the pursuants and pursued closed within range, the longshoreman took up his Flamer by both handles and unloaded a blast of gas-splatter and fire that struck both the chemist and the fish chasing him.

Disoriented and screaming, he fell off Angel. He rolled about the sand to put himself out once confident he was on the ground. He lay there panting for some time before the longshoreman approached and stood over him. The open lattice metal structure of the pavilion loomed behind ‘Choly’s head mere yards away. The longshoreman shoved the nozzle of the Flamer in ‘Choly’s face.

“The fuck is a Rust Devil doing wearing a... US army... uniform...?” The certainty washed from his coarse voice, and he dropped the weapon to the dirt to remove his ushanka and welding goggles. ‘Choly squinted up at the figure silhouetted by the sun directly above them. All ‘Choly could make out was a faint insinuation of a chin-beard. Absolute hurt and confusion came next. “... _Mindy?_ ”

Out of reflex, ‘Choly swept the longshoreman ghoul’s legs with a kick and tried to crawl away, but didn’t manage to knock him down. The longshoreman sidestepped around to cut him off, and crouched to grab him by a fistful of shirt to glare at him with a snarl. All the chemist could do was shake his head as his trembling denial sublimated into broken jealousy.

“No... No, you’re _Sticks_. The river ghoul,” he insisted, labored laughter cracking out of him. Tears streamed down his face as the sunlight seared the edges of his vision. “Jacob Hawthorne is dead. You-- You can’t--”

“This is a new low, even for her.” Sticks choked down sobbing. “How the hell did she-- Did she even _know_ we have history?”

Angel finally unstuck, its tendrils curled tight.

“...Mister Hawthorne? Is it really you...?”

The ghoul clenched his teeth and let go of 'Choly, and stood to collect his flamethrower. He walked across the street opposite the pavilion, toward what once had been an ice cream parlor. He waved them on in invitation.

“You’re going to come inside, and you’re going to tell me what the HELL this is all about.”

“No.” ‘Choly sniveled as he righted himself with his cane and followed, fringes of the Red Rocket in his peripheral as he conflated the two experiences. “No, you can’t be him. I... I _saw_ him beheaded not a week ago!”

Angel remained outside to keep watch, knowing to give them space.

“I have no idea who or what you thought was me in that scenario, but I’m right here. I’m me--”

“-- _No!_ ” ‘Choly couldn’t hold in his hysterics, and flew to collapse against Sticks’s chest. “No! It’s not fair! It’s not right! Why is everyone I know a ghoul now, _except me_!”

Sticks made him sit in a booth, then began pacing. After a moment he paused and threw out both hands.

“Carey, how are you standing clear as day in front of me? Where the fuck have you been all this time? Barring whatever happened to you, you don’t look like you’ve aged a day since you vanished down the vault.”

“I... I haven’t.” He sniffed, and tossed his glasses on the cracked linoleum table. “The vault... put me on ice. Cryogenics. The equipment finally failed a few months back. I don’t think I thawed properly...” Uncertainty made his despair-soaked features wander wild. “Jacob... if you’re still alive, why wasn’t there any sign you’d been in Sanctuary?”

“God...” Sticks had to start pacing again. “I took two things. But I couldn’t stay there. Not after what happened. I couldn’t even get my car off its side once the dust settled. You know security turned away the Vault-Tec salesman that signed your residency? He wouldn’t let me loot the neighbors’ houses, the nerd. Not even for first aid or food. We both turned ghoul while traveling together for a few years. But I had to go alone for a ways, just to get away from him. God, he’s annoying.” He flapped the thought process away, and sat beside ‘Choly. “I’ve been a lot of places since then. Here’s the closest to home I’ve found yet. Yeah, I go by Sticks now. I feel like Jacob Hawthorne died in the process of becoming a ghoul. I... _hope_ the man I used to be died.”

“I... I don’t know what to say... None of this feels right... or _real_... I’m dreaming, right?”

When ‘Choly started at his nervous habit of stroking his chin scar, something inside Sticks cracked, and he ran a finger over the same place on himself.

“Mindy... know that I’m not the man who did that to you, not anymore. I’m not asking you to forgive me. Just. After that night, I realized just how volatile I can be under pressure. That I had a lot of baggage to unpack. That was lifetimes ago. I’ve had a lot of time to wander and sort myself out. I’m alive. I’m a ghoul now, but I’m alive.”

‘Choly could still smell the memory of recoolant and corroded metal around him. His stomach churned.

“No... no, he... The feral called me Mindy. No one else has ever called me that.”

“You think you could make sense of sounds a feral makes? There’s nothing left in the brain pan. Even if they could string together words, they don’t have meaning.” His volume trailed off again, only to pick up. “God, they froze you because I waved you on. Look at you. It’s my fault you’re this bad off.”

His bluntness lurched ‘Choly forward to press his lips to Sticks’ to shut him up. The ghoul stuttered in exasperation when ‘Choly wouldn’t pull away, and grabbed the chemist by the shoulders to force him to stop. Sticks bit his lower lip, overwhelmed.

“I’ve spent months blaming myself for what I thought had become of you,” ‘Choly insisted with beseeching affect. “Do you know what I keep trying to tell myself when I think about it? That I couldn’t have possibly known what kind of effect the bombs would have on you.” With a faint pained smile, his hands wandered to caress Sticks’s face. When Sticks grabbed him by the wrists, he relented. “That I would have... changed places gladly...”

“But then you might have bec-- _oh_.” He recoiled in a sneer, and stood to pace again. “Oh, that makes a fat lotta sense. Your brain’s soup, Mindy. I can’t think of a single ghoul I’ve met that’s happy to be one. It’s miserable, and everyone treats us like we’re infectious.”

“Olivia didn’t seem to mind,” he commented sheepishly.

“Oh, the General minds all right. One of the most self-conscious ghouls I’ve ever known. Doesn’t wanna get with a ghoul, ‘cause then it feels like she’s settling. Doesn’t wanna get with a human, ‘cause then it feels like they pity her. But it doesn’t work like that.”

“You... tried to get with Olivia Francis?” ‘Choly couldn’t shove down the reflex to laugh. “Jacob, she might be general now, but she’s always... been a _sergeant_. All shirts and trousers.”

The ghoul wilted in place after a moment, feeling very small.

“At one point, I thought I could be an exception.”

‘Choly shook his head pityingly.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

“Neither have you.” A confused smile crossed the ghoul’s face, which melted into concern and impatience. “So you did come from the base, then? She sent you? She needs something from the Furriers again. That’s the only reason anyone ever bothers me up here.”

“She says the Rust Devils are getting more brazen. That they’ve taken Back Central. She was hoping the Furriers would help. Do you think they will?”

Sticks frowned.

“Not for free, they won’t.”

“...Will _you_ help?”

The ghoul softened.

“Only ‘cause it’s you, Mindy.”

The silence lingered a bit too long, and ‘Choly unstuck to hobble over to the front door to get Angel’s attention.

“It’s almost lunch time. I brought food from the base. Enough for two--”

Sticks grabbed him before he could poke his head outside.

“I don’t want Francis’s damn drugged food.”

‘Choly’s face slacked and he stared dumbly up at the ghoul.

“...Her what now?”

“You really are dull as a spoon sometimes. Don’t accept drinks from her. And don’t accept her food, not even stuff she’s dolled up to look prepackaged. She acts a misanthrope, but she’s a needy little thing.” Sticks grinned sarcastically at him. “Everything just felt so right, didn’t it? Like you were _finally home_.”

The cocktail. ‘Choly’s face burned. No wonder she’d only offered him muddled or opaque drinks. And the Meals Ready to Eat... He looked to his Pip-Boy’s health screen to find he’d been given potent doses of a mood enhancer. A dry swallow couldn’t dislodge the lump in his throat.

“Come on, don’t let the mistake get to you. She duped me first time I met her, too. She didn’t poison you. It’ll work its way out of your system in a few hours tops. Let me cook us both lunch. We’ll need the fuel to get across Howe Bridge and Cox Bridge. Even just cutting through the National Historic Park’s no walk in the park, tch.”

“She... told me to stay Pawtucketville side, and cut across the C.I.T. Lowell campus...” He had to sit again, lost as ever.

“The General either considers you that goddamn expendable, or knew that by sending you to me, I’d set you straight out of sheer self-preservation.” Sticks growled, loathing the position he was in. “The C.I.T. ruins are a hermit crab nest.” He threw his hands in the air and walked off to slap open the double-action swinging door, shouting uncertain expletives in the kitchen.

‘Choly wandered behind the bar counter, to poke his head through the service window with a nervous, tired smile.

“And what secret ingredient do you slip into food _you_ serve people?”

The blond ghoul glanced up at him from the icebox and grinned to himself, shaking his head with a demented resignation.

“Depends on who’s staying for dinner.”


	11. Hermitage (Ch44)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stir that pot, Sticks. Stir it up good. TWs: Mental break, mention of past assault.

Sticks came out of the kitchen carrying two steaming hot bowls, one in his right hand and the other balanced on the fold of his right arm. The ghoul set one in front of ‘Choly and one where he’d sit on the other side of the booth. In his left hand he’d carried in a sizable greyish egg slightly larger than a coconut, and he cracked it stiffly into ‘Choly’s bowl with a mindful deadpan. The egg was mostly whites, with a walnut sized yolk. He produced flatware from an apron pocket, and stirred the addition in to create egg ribbons in the opaque pale stew.

‘Choly could identify carrot and corn in the bowl, but little else. He decided not to comment on the one elbow-high leather glove Sticks wore on his left hand.

“What... is this? I know there’s no milk anymore, and it looks so creamy.”

Sticks cleared his throat and straightened, to project an exaggerated Boston accent.

“Squirrel chowder.”

‘Choly did his best not to make a face at the source of the small darkly color meat nuggets.

“...And the egg? That was _not_ from a chicken.”

Despite what Olivia had advised, ‘Choly struggled not to stare at Sticks as he sat down opposite him, between his features and his familiarity. The ghoul still had most of his head of blond hair, though it had thinned out a good bit, and he still could grow facial hair contrary to being covered in what looked like deep wiry burn scars from his radiation exposure. The missing chunk of his upper lip exposed the incisor and canine near it. His dark-sclera eyes glanced off to the side, likely misinterpreting ‘Choly looking restlessly between him and the food as ‘Choly distrusting the food.

“Radscorpion. Wasteland remedy. Perfect for hangovers... and coming down from God knows how many consecutive doses of Day Tripper.”

“A scorpion egg. _One_. Help me, I don’t know if I want to--” He trailed off in a sputter. “Day Tripper. No wonder I couldn’t even hold up a combat helmet.” He finally held up a spoonful to blow on it, and try it. He appreciated the savory mouthful with a slow nod, brows raised. “Not bad.”

“Used to be one of the only chems I’d touch back in the day. Skate through dicey deals on a rough day. Don’t really touch the stuff at all anymore. ...You know, mouthwash does wonders for a nasty bite like that.”

‘Choly didn’t notice how much he’d been fidgeting and stirred his stew more diligently to cool it.

“I’d sooner pour vodka on it.”

Sticks chuckled.

“If memory serves, you’d sooner pour vodka on just about anything.”

Angel opened the front door, and poked its sensors around it.

“Pray I’m not intruding, but I just wanted to check on you gentlemen.” It rushed in once it saw the food on the table. “Why, you’re not eating the MREs Miss Olivia gave you! Did you forget about them, Mister Carey?”

“Oh, no. No, Sticks insisted on being the hospitable one.” He broke down into snickering. “I’m sorry. Sticks. Sticks?”

“What about it? Sticks set out some hardtack in a kerchief. He soaked a chunk in his stew, and offered some to ‘Choly, who declined it. “Nothing wrong with a ghoul livin’ on the river...” He trailed off to lyrical effect, with a long pause.

“Oh, you nerd. I’ve thought it was S-T-I-C-K-S all this time.”

“It is.” Sticks smiled to himself while he kept the hardtack sunk with the back of his spoon. “...Y’know, this isn’t even close to how I thought I was going to spend my day.”

“And how’s that?”

“A pot of stew, and then work on my refurb project some more.” The ghoul eyed Angel. “Those had better not be off Little Boy Blue.”

“My word, no,” Angel interjected. It proceeded to idly polish at the countertops.

“I could never--!” ‘Choly stuffed his mouth full of poached egg. “What are you restoring?”

“Usually my days are packed with maintenance and repair on my mirelurk traps, but I was gonna kick it easy today and try again to get a car running. I try every few years. Not without its risks, but it’s less dangerous now, being a ghoul. Cracked engines don’t risk a suntan anymore.”

So ghouls were resistant, or immune altogether, to radiation after all. For some time, ‘Choly worked on downing the meal.

“Mirelurk?” the chemist finally asked. “I thought they were called Merrilurks.”

“Oh, it’s like how a wolf spider’s a kind of spider. They’re particularly gnarly as far as Commonwealth crustaceans go. Lowell’s factories and mills used to dump directly into the Merrimack and Concord. And Deenwood, too, of course, but you lot couldn’t just dump straight from your backyard. Pipelines. Nasty stuff.”

‘Choly numbed to having had a source put to the mutated wildlife. The flavors of the stew clung to his mouth and he ran his tongue over its roof repeatedly.

“Are you trying to tell me that something Deenwood made, created those... things that attacked me and Angel?”

“Duller than a spoon.” Sticks clicked his tongue. “You think the base disposed of their waste safely? In war time? The mills were getting converted over to fabricating military textiles like QUARPEL, too, the year the bombs fell. Deenwood kept dumping for decades after the world ended. Wouldn’t be surprised if the General still dumps her project waste.”

‘Choly picked at the morsels in his bowl.

“...You go by Sticks now. I go by Melancholy now, for my degree in opiates. Do you... do you remember the Melancholia? Did I ever make any around you?”

“What, that stuff you drank instead of eating?”

“Yeah, I...” His throat choked him. “I thought maybe you’d remember what went into it.”

“... _Melancholy_ , it’s been two hundred years since I last saw your face. You think I’d remember your recipe just from observing you make it a few times? I’m sorry.” The ghoul took a big bite and patted the table to stand, then held up his hands to suggest ‘Choly stay put. Once he could swallow half of it, he started, “I might not have that, but I do have something else.”

When Sticks vanished upstairs, ‘Choly looked to Angel.

“Oh, Sir, don’t look at me. I haven’t a clue.”

The ghoul returned with a jewelry box. He picked through it and produced a velvet drawstring bag, which he set beside ‘Choly’s food before sitting again.

“Before Gene dragged me out of Sanctuary Hills--the Vault-Tec guy--I took what valuables I could scoop together from the house. Including your stuff. I wanted to be able to liquidate easily. I sold off most of it, but something about selling off _those_ just felt... off. It would’ve been like selling off your--” He stared at ‘Choly’s bars, realizing he still had them, and quietened himself a spell with another mouthful of stew. “--Your uniform.”

“I was just as surprised as you to find it hanging in the Walden Drugs mud room, still in the bag, after all these years.” He sat back to empty the bag into his hand, and the breath fell from him at the sight of his red enamel cuff links returned to him. He turned them in his palm. “My remembrance poppies. I did forget them that morning, didn’t I? J-- Sticks. You... said you took two things. What was the other?”

Sticks gave him a raunchy sneer.

“The lingerie catalogue. You remember, right? Duchesne?”

The two exchanged an ugly laugh.

“No wonder I couldn’t find it.” The chemist grinned insufferably.

“--You looked for it!” The ghoul slapped the table and guffawed.

Because the Pip-Boy forced one rolled cuff, he couldn’t wear both cuff-links, but ‘Choly threaded one poppy through his left cuff buttonholes with a fading smile. Memory of Duchesne from the nightmare the other day elicited a flinch. He started sobering from the chem that had likely been in both his breakfast and his early morning cocktail, and he rubbed at his forehead attempting to draw his eyes back into focus. His head picked up, his jaw askew. “--Wait. If you’re-- wHO DID I FUCK--”

Sticks choked on his food and laughed even harder, punctuating ‘Choly’s meltdown.

“Mindy, you fucked a _FERAL_? And you thought--” He could barely breathe he was in such stitches.

“I-- I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“No, no. Go on. This is the most entertaining company I’ve probably kept in fifty years or more.” He wiped away tears. “...Christ, I’ve missed you.”

‘Choly could feel himself trembling. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and his ears rang dully. His nostrils tasted like metallic dust filled them. He tries to steady his breathing.

“...You haven’t even the first idea how much I’ve missed you. I haven’t been adjusting well to waking up to all this. I’ve self-medicated with just about everything I’ve put my hands on. Essentially sampled the whole Wasteland... You’re sure you don’t remember what went into my meal replacement drink?”

“Ohhh, if you’ve only been defrosted a few months, you haven’t sampled shit. You wanna fool around with that junk, I can tell you what all to keep your eyes peeled for. And no, Mindy, no. I don’t. I’m surprised you never wrote down something you considered so important.”

After a long pause, Angel piped up.

“Mister Carey has sworn off chems.”

Sticks and ‘Choly made surreptitious eye contact like they always used to, and went back to finishing their meal. Both of them grinned that for as much as everything had changed, the knowing glance of scheming caprice still came as familiar as ever.

They headed out once Sticks shoved the bowls in the sink. He loaded up with canisters of flamer fuel strapped to his legs and back, and strapped a bandolier of Molotov cocktails across his chest. ‘Choly would have never recognized him under the ushanka and welding goggles.

“Hope you don’t mind that we’re going on foot,” the ghoul commented as they continued East on Pawtucket Boulevard. “I haven’t had a car running in years, and your guess is as good as mine whether the river locks even work anymore.”

“After our run-in earlier, I don’t think I’d trust the waterways. ...Man, I just can’t believe you really live right on the water. By all those things.”

“They know to leave me alone.” He shook the nozzle of his flamer. “They hate fire.”

They passed through the intersection for O’Donnell Bridge and continued along the river instead.

“I know it’s cutting it real close to the C.I.T. ruins, but O’Donnell’s always crawling with Merrilurks and hermit crabs. I don’t trust the vehicles I saw. They weren’t there last time I came this way.”

‘Choly’s ears were still ringing, but he’d begun evening out well enough. He steadied his syringer rifle with one hand on the handle, to rub under his visor at his eye sockets.

“Yeah, Olivia mentioned the crabs. I’m not understanding what vehicles have to do with it.”

Sticks held up a finger to hush him, and they crossed the next bridge down, Howe. Once they stood on the Southern intersection across the Merrimack, he pointed to the parking garages.

“Big crabs move into big shells. The tectonic activity from the bombs flooded the hook down into campus. The bottom story of a parking garage like that is perfect for them.”

‘Choly squinted at the building.

“Are you trying to tell me that the crabs are as big as Little Boy Blue?”

“A lot of them are bigger. Saw one take a freightliner trailer once.”

The chemist paled, but the ghoul didn’t laugh at him.

They crossed a single-lane bridge from the Acre into Downtown. ‘Choly had been watching the tick on his Pip-Boy’s map in comparison to their location, and hemmed when they didn’t cut straight East to the next nearest bridge.

“Why not Oullette?”

“It’s out. Cox or nothing.”

They turned right from the ballpark then took an immediate left, and followed the street until they hit a roundabout with a post office. With another left, they traveled down a single street for a ways, crossed into the National Historical Park district proper, packed to the brim with Federalist architecture both industrial and residential.

“Not to beat a dead horse,” Sticks started, his mouth difficult, “but that night, when I pulled a knife on you... I was scared. Like I’d misjudged you. You had a moral compass. Limits. That’s the last thing I expected from a Deenwood chemist. I think I took it, that you were trying to be the better man. The day of the bombs, I really believed you were. My brokering habits have made it hard to cultivate much of a compass of my own, really. I still broker chems in Goodneighbor and Diamond City when I get restless and have to get out of Lowell. To be fair, a lot of the history I’ve got with the Furriers involves chem trafficking, too.”

“I don’t think arguing the morality of things really has a place in the new world order anymore. At least, not the morals of the world that came before this one.”

One couldn’t say he was sorry. The other couldn’t say he forgave him.

“...You’re partly right. The way things have changed, different things take priority. Friends and security are still big ones, though.”

“As ever, I’m sure the big thing is what company one keeps, and how one achieves that security.”

“Amen.”

“Cheers!” Angel agreed. “It’s so good to have the two of you reconciled at last. ...I told you that feral ghoul wasn’t Mister Hawthorne, Sir.”

When Sticks burst into another peal of raucous laughter, ‘Choly flushed and sank down atop Angel with a frown.

They turned onto Bridge Street, and passed the long brick red textile mills to the left.

“I don’t doubt your navigation, Sticks. But if we’re taking Cox, why didn’t we just cut straight down Fr. Morissette? Or Hall?”

The ghoul shrugged.

“Well, I took you a way without any parking garages, didn’t I?”

“You mean all p--”

“--Yes.”

They stepped onto the pale green hybrid truss-cantilever bridge. ‘Choly looked North along the river and could tell the previous bridge across the waterway had in fact fallen out. Angel also looked every which way, and ‘Choly got paranoid when even Sticks felt on edge.

“My sensors indicate we’re being observed,” the Handy informed.

“Yeah, they know we’re coming. That’s fine.” Sticks sighed. “Mindy, let me do the talking when we get there, all right? They know me.”

‘Choly remembered that Jacob had always been the one of theme who cut their deals, and he nodded with a swallow.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Oh, and one more thing.” He held up his gloved hand. “Don’t touch them.”

They get to the other side of Cox Bridge without further comment. The entire area felt like another world, the closer they got to the designated marker on ‘Choly’s Pip-Boy map. The architecture didn’t look like it belonged in this landscape, let alone in the United States. Bizarre organic shapes jutted from the earth, a mixture of earthen material and warped sheet metal. Once they arrived in Voire proper, Sticks waved ‘Choly to dismount Angel, and the chemist walked by cane the rest of the way.

The deeper into the settlement they traveled, they began to notice people in fur and leather garments milling about their daily activities, which included skinning and butchering, weaving, cooking, and the like. They didn’t seem to mind the visitors much, though it looked as though Voire didn’t get many owing that everyone dressed so similarly. Sticks had dropped his guard, carrying his flamer more than wielding it at the ready, so ‘Choly put up his rifle as well.

It didn’t sit well for the chemist, that every single Furrier he’d laid eyes on so far wore Halloween masks. And he didn’t feel confident in his ability to read their silhouettes beneath their large, long coats.


	12. Guising (Ch45)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Vague sense of body horror, paranoia.

“Dismount before we go any further.” Sticks gestured down the way to a small red brick Federalist building on the embankment which led up to the reservoir. “Angel, it’s best you stay with us regardless. If I mistook you so easy for Rust Devil craftsmanship, anyone here could jump to the same conclusions.”

The Mister Handy scoffed. ‘Choly complied, though the reasoning eluded him.

“Mister Carey is far more adept than those curs.”

“Ohh, I know, buddy. Same goes for you, compared to those things they make.”

“I simply feel just awful that the robots likely don’t recall whatever model they began as. They’ve been stripped of their sense of self, and gain only greater capacity for violence in the exchange.”

“Violence, unfortunately, goes a long way these days.”

“Hasn’t it always?”

“Hasn’t it always,” ‘Choly mumbled in detachment, ignoring the strange attempts at compliments. As he took to his cane, he at least hoped there wouldn’t be too much walking. The persistent vague sense of claustrophobia from being surrounded by people with masks clung fast to the roof of his mouth. He couldn’t tell if it tasted like irony or hypocrisy on his part.

The Furrier standing outside the reservoir house wore long dark green and brown coat with a fur collar, and a simplistic skull mask with dark eye sockets, sunken cheeks, and yellow teeth painted on.

“They’re expecting you.” She pointed across the way from her dwelling.

Sticks nodded and led ‘Choly up to a non-geometric mudbrick dwelling which had incorporated sections of a farmhouse at odd angles and placements, more for structural purposes than as any functional openings. The cave-like hole in the front reminded of a mud swallow’s nest. Lacking windows, series lighting embedded in the mud ceiling illuminated the somewhat subterranean space. ‘Choly wondered how they had electricity. The owner wore a leather witch mask with a draped satin hood, and they sat on a dilapidated love-seat as one would an armchair. They didn’t even need to stand for ‘Choly to know this Furrier would tower over all three of them by at least a full head height. Their coat collar folded down in a broad plush dusty grey fur, and they wore royal purple leather gloves. Green fabric that seemed to once have borne semblance to a dress shirt wrapped their torso, and one of their arms made use of a single full sleeve. The other arm used one coat sleeve, but it wasn’t until the Furrier stood that ‘Choly deduced that they didn’t have both arms through the coat sleeves because their coat didn’t quite clear both their shoulders.

Sticks set down his flamer and offered his gloved left hand for a handshake. The Furrier chuffed and instead lurched forward to bear hug him. ‘Choly recalled the ghoul’s caveat not to let them touch him, and would have intervened had the Furrier not let go. Only once they patted Sticks on the shoulder did it click that three arms had comprised the Furrier’s grip, and ‘Choly sputtered into a coughing fit.

“The General needs help again, Reese.” The ghoul did his best to ignore the chemist’s tactlessness.

“She knows the price.” Reese’s voice sounded both difficult and effortless, and ‘Choly could not tell if it belonged to a man or a woman.

“And you won’t agree to anything less?”

The more ‘Choly eyed Reese, the less confident he felt that he regarded someone with standard bone structure in any sense of the concept. Were they standing in a way to face him and Sticks, or were they standing facing away from them, and the mask obscured this? Was the third arm a real arm? A prosthetic? Did the third one sprout later, and if so which two were the originals? He nearly couldn’t follow the conversation between his ex-roommate and the Furriers’ leader, too beset by that mask which he knew he couldn’t ask them to remove for his own sake. Reese zeroed in on ‘Choly and stepped toward him to hunch down and get a better look at him. Up close, the eye holes on their mask didn’t feel like they matched up to the Furrier’s eyes, and ‘Choly squirmed with that long crooked leather nose in his face.

“Well...” they mulled, “she did provide a tribute.”

“--TribUTE.” ‘Choly frowned. “She sent me to get help. She didn’t say anything about--”

“--He’s not going to unfold with you.” Sticks slouched at Reese. “That’s not why we’re here.”

“Unfold?” ‘Choly looked to Sticks, then to Reese, then back to Sticks.

“You’re a fresh recruit, then,” Reese deduced. “She taught you nothing if she did not tell you about The Unfolding. You’ve much to learn about the history of the place you wear the uniform of.”

“The Rust Devils are pushing deeper into Back Central,” Sticks continued, trying to shepherd the conversation on track. “They’ll take the Acre and Downtown Historic at this rate. Belvidere’s at risk as well. You don’t want that kind of a neighbor just a stone’s throw across the river, now, do you?”

“We’re well aware they’ve been expanding their territory quickly as of late. Are you certain they’re spilling into the Acre?”

“As certain as my nose spites my face. She wouldn’t have sent after me if it wasn’t serious.”

Reese noticed that ‘Choly couldn’t stop staring meaningfully. They sidestepped Sticks to entertain ‘Choly’s confusion.

“A greenhorn doesn’t know what he’s looking at, does he? That base used to be ours...” they leaned in to inspect his nameplate, “ _Carey_. A nice touch, that she’s promoted you to captain already. Surely, the masks unnerve you. You can’t stand not knowing the consequences of history, can you?”

Before ‘Choly could choke out some half-intentioned alarm that Reese might have the same unusual skill as Missus Murphy, Sticks stepped between them with an uneasy glance.

“I’ll talk to her about another batch of the original X-Cell if you’ll stop giving my friend here a hard time. ‘Choly is definitely... new around here, no question.”

‘Choly mouthed the word ‘original’ to himself in shock, but Sticks’s attention lay squarely on Reese, who wrung their hands together with slow delight.

“It’s been over a decade since we last had an Unfolding. We’re eighty-seven today. She’s to consider the rite our preparation for the task. Bring one hundred. I believe we’ve all been negligent to let this trouble get so close to us before quashing it flat.”

“Then it’s agreed,” the ghoul asserted. “Two factions against one. You’ll help the General set up against the Devils?”

Reese nodded.

“What stands after The Unfolding will help you. Go speak to Bones, and cement the year’s collective. Tell her I’ve appointed her Mistress of Ceremonies.”

“Admit you don’t mind having the General around as much as you suggest.”

“She has but one purpose in the Commonwealth.”

“We’ll return by the end of the week.”

“We anticipate your arrival.”

‘Choly’s ears rang as Sticks picked his flamer back up and they exited to cross the road back to the reservoir house. Was Sticks the reason Jared had assumed ‘Choly would know of X-Cell from his Deenwood ties? Or had the chem simply been spread around like so much petrified ribbon candy?

“She said not to give away the farm,” the chemist uttered with hushed punctuation. “I... I don’t understand.”

“Like I said before. You’ve only been walking around this place a few months, Mindy. You can’t even fathom the candy you can put your hands on these days. The base is the best house on the street to fill up your sack... if you can handle a little Hansel and Gretel.”

The comparison wouldn’t quit his recollection of Reese’s witch mask. His face drooped in a mental surfeit.

“And me without a pumpkin pail.”

Sticks entered the open door of the reservoir house first, then ‘Choly followed. Angel remained in the doorway of the small space, which was well lit midday by large windows facing the waterfront. The skull-faced Furrier had resumed her eponymous bonecraft, carving out sewing needles. All manner of taxidermy, including the twin heads of a mounted radstag with at least fifteen points, adorned her wall. Bones could barely sit still, and flew to stand and pace when the pair entered her house.

“M-- Miss Bones,” ‘Choly started, “we’ve got some... news of interest.”

Sticks wrenched him back by the shoulder and stood between them. When the ghoul tightened his grip, it was the first time ‘Choly could truly feel the ghoul’s gloved left hand, and he could recognize hard mechanical parts. The chemist flinched, recalling the personal space caveat, and took the gesture as a more insistent warning.

“What can we provide the Mistress of Ceremonies?” The ghoul forced a grin.

Immediately, the Furrier squealed with delight and clapped with all four gloved hands, each a different rich color. Once she flung off her coat to free her range of motion, ‘Choly could tell she had two functional pair of arms, one at her shoulders and another atop her hips. Her attire was a mixture of straps and strips wrapped around her as her limbs would allow it.

“Oh, no no...” Bones scrutinized a variety of ledgers strewn about the various desks and tabletops, retrieving baskets from drawers on occasion. “No! That won’t do. If we’re to unfold anew, we’ve got to have fresh textile resources. We’ve done all right the past few years, repairing what we have, but ohh!” She squealed again. “To have a reason to completely replace it all again! How time sensitive is our end of the bargain this time?”

“I’d give it a week, tops. The Rust Devils are moving in on your territory and the General’s both. We’re here to ask Reese to lead you all against them.”

She stroked at her collarbones in thought.

“Ick is still grateful for the last time. I’ll have you know, he’s told me to carry along the message, next you stepped foot in Voire: You really _must_ see him.”

“I’m sure he would love that.” Sticks boiled frustration down into a stupid smile. “Are we talking a Downtown recon? Shouldn’t we secure the city from the bad element before we go getting more comfortable?”

“You wouldn’t see us stripped in The Unfolding.” She lurched forward with all hands tented. “You are to bring us The Unfolding, yes?”

“--What _is_ this ‘Unfolding’?”

‘Choly shrank when Sticks scowled at him.

“It is our _everything_ ,” Bones moaned. She languored on a chair that clearly had been reshaped for her odd shoulders, then looked to guarantee she still held their attention. “You’re free to spectate... or even join... However you like. The more, the merrier. Isn’t that right, Sticks?”

“That was fifty years ago, Bones. Stop making this weird and be specific, or I’ll tell the General that you just want a case of Sugar Bombs.”

She gripped the armrests, aghast.

“Oh you awful, awful ghoul. You wouldn’t threaten such as this unless you really did mean to follow through with your promise.” She melted back into anticipation. “Retrieve for us a crate of ballistics fiber from Boott Mills. We must be unburdened in this task.”

“Ballistics fiber,” ‘Choly mumbled in understanding. “You’re going to make some new armor?”

“Many of us cannot wear armor,” she replied. “Our bodies unfold in unpredictable ways. We must instead rely on garb alone.”

“And you’re sure you can’t go retrieve it yourself?” the ghoul asked rhetorically.

“The crabs are in mating season.”

“I would ask what your point was, but you know what? I don’t know what’s worse: the hatchlings, or the Rust Devils.” Sticks picked up his flamer again. “Yeah, we’ll get it.”

“I’ll name your compensation once you bring me what I’ve requested.” She slapped the nearest desk with three hands, and went back to work. “Until then, I have many needles to carve out for the preparations ahead of us.”

“Thank you, Miss Bones,” ‘Choly called back behind them as he followed the ghoul out of the building. She waved at him as though he were a child, and he smiled anxiously.

The ghoul led them down the street and to the right, following the block of field which had been turned into a man-made body of water before the war. A large windmill stood at the Southeast corner across the water. Housing had been re-erected on all four sides of the field in the same fashion as Reese’s dwelling, remnants of vehicle and farmhouse plastered together with dark mud brick. To the Northeast, a ten-foot-high wall reinforced Voire against the woodlands.

“So we might have to encounter some crabs after all, hm?” ‘Choly laughed sheepishly. “It’s a good thing you brought fire.”

“Don’t act like I’m positive you turned down the General offering you incendiary materiel.”

“She outfitted me with a specialized laser,” Angel corrected.

‘Choly’s ears burned. Sticks rolled his eyes at them both.

“We’ll make it work. Not like we’ve got much other choice.”

“...Aren’t the textile mills in Downtown?”

“Ick lives up here. Two men and a robot isn’t enough. Can you keep your mouth shut this time?”

The chemist frowned, trying to keep pace enough to lower his voice.

“Are we pretending I’m new blood for a reason?”

“To be honest, if they find out you were one of the General’s coworkers? I’m not entirely sure what they’d do to you. There’s a few who honor the Deenwood Project, but there’s a good few more that only tolerate its continued existence for what it provides them.”

“So the whole damn world knows what Deenwood was for, then.” ‘Choly shifted into a stifled snarl. “There was never a breach of DIA intel.”

“Are you still going on about X-Cell?” Sticks squinted at him. “A lot of prewar secrets aren’t secrets anymore, 'Choly.”

“No. You don’t understand. A raider. In Lexington.” He grew winded at Sticks’s pace. “He knew Psycho and X-Cell both originated here in Lowell. How did he know? And you’re trying to tell me that these mutated trappers just use a fuck ton of a top secret military prototype chem?”

When Sticks wouldn’t answer him, he grabbed the ghoul and made him stop.

“No. You’re going to talk to me,” the chemist snapped. “Raiders can’t get a hold of that stuff. It’s bad enough that they’ve been appropriating Lowell’s robots.”

Sticks shrugged out of ‘Choly’s grip with a curled lip, then continued walking.

“Goods go to the highest bidder.” He motioned to the dwelling on the left ahead of them, containing blue housing bits. “The Furriers have always been the highest bidder.”


	13. Henny-Penny (Ch46)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mental snap, body horror

A small building something akin to a shack or garage stood separate from the mudded dwelling intermixed with what had once been a blue country house. They walked up to the opening of the dwelling. Sticks poked his head inside, and knocked to somewhat hollow effect. A dry chuckle within drew a grin out of the ghoul, and he set down his flamer to wave ‘Choly inside. Angel, as always, remained in the Furriers’ doorways.

Hand-sculpted shelves both dug into and emanated out from the walls of the dwelling’s dome-like main room. As Reese’s house, series lighting embedded in the topmost region of the surface of the room illuminated it. While Sticks greeted the inhabitant, ‘Choly eyed the shelving, and the old man’s belongings. Hood finials, dashboard ornaments, rear view mirror dangles--so this Furrier shared a love of vehicles with Sticks. He glanced over to the pair to find them engaging in what seemed at first a sort of secret handshake: They crisscrossed their arms to grip together all four hands between them. Both the old man’s arms belonged to the right side of his body, one of which originated where a neck should have been, and his neck and head came instead from his left shoulder. Clad in an apron-like glossy, ruddy leather garment with a dusty grey-blue wrapped shirt beneath, this Furrier wore a mummy mask comprised of several materials. Its sallow eyelids hung heavy and sarcastic, and the lipless mouth shape could not contain the insinuation of teeth. Wild silver-white hair bushed out anywhere the mask was not affixed. ‘Choly stared as the two sealed the gesture with a long tight hug.

“Lacked you something sorry, Sticks. Know you visited the higher ups before you came to see me,” the old man known as Ick play-scolded. Barrel-chested and modestly burly, he projected his voice with a certain benevolent insistence. The hand of the top arm smushed down Sticks’s ushanka and the ghoul stifled a wheeze out of his noseless nostrils. “Who’s this picayune?”

“I’m...” ‘Choly stiffened. “I’m Melancholy.”

The mummy-faced trapper approached him and looked over his coat, then tapped his nameplate.

“Melancholy,” Ick repeated thoughtfully with a nod. “Sure he’s said it, but I’m Ick.”

The trapper offered his shoulder-arm and its bright red glove for a handshake and ‘Choly swallowed, trying to remember how Sticks had done it. But Ick didn’t give him the chance, and dragged him into a hug and vigorous shoulder-pat. The chemist smiled nervously once he let go of him, and did his best not to look unnerved by all the physical contact the ghoul had warned him to avoid.

“How’s the Riverhawk?” Sticks began.

“Keepin’ her sharp as ever.” The mummy skirted the ghoul’s directness. “Stay for dinner? I’ve got a bunch’a pelt hangin’ in the kitchen just this mornin’.”

“Meals sit better shared,” the ghoul quietly agreed. “You really gotta show me your curved needle technique again. I think I’ve lost it. Last mounted animal I did myself came out looking more like a prewar cartoon character.”

Ick chuckled, patting his hands together.

“Then you’re around for a few days. Bless it all, I don’t even care if I’m getting too old to unfold. Really, I wish you’d move into Voire proper, you misanthrope. I’m not the only one that’s lacked you.”

“The fishing’s better out Pawtucketville side.” Sticks leaned against a smooth part of the wall. “You know I stay out there as the lifeline between y’all and the General, besides. ...Wish you’d move out to Sampas with me, gonna be like that. We’d get into much better mischief.”

“I do miss scavvin’ lots with you,” Ick resigned with a shrug. “But the fur and leather’s so much better in Dracut’s backyard. You tell me how much radstag runs into you.”

‘Choly mentally squirmed, excluded from the familiarity of their conversation. He’d known Sticks for less than a year and they’d grown near-instantly close, but from the sound of it, the ghoul and this Furrier had known one another for half a century or longer. Time hadn’t stopped just because the chemist had succumbed to a cryogenic coma. The jet lag hooked at his temples and stitched around his scalp.

As the two continued to catch up without him, he readily scrutinized Ick’s physique unnoticed. Something about the asymmetrical arrangement of Ick’s pair of arms unsettled him in a way the other Furriers’ oddity had not. He identified that the old man had a third hand, though he lacked full use of it largely owing to it jutting halfway down his left side absent of an arm. This third hand was gnarled up and fused to Ick’s flesh, and ‘Choly choked up at recognizing that the hand looked distinctly _ghoulish_. His delayed disbelief snapped all at once, and with a terse snarl he lurched forward to grab the mask off Ick.

The old man’s very regular and very aged features stared back at him almost expectantly. ‘Choly hyperventilated as he gawked at the fullest concept of the Furrier’s anatomical dishevelment. Sticks looked on, disappointed and pained but not the least bit surprised at ‘Choly’s behavior.

“--Mindy, what were you expecting?”

“...I thought you said your name was Melancholy.” Ick’s bushy eyebrows raised then lowered as he tried to figure out for himself why the chemist had unmasked him.

“I have a lot of names, I guess!” ‘Choly slouched apologetically, confused as ever. “I get the feeling Sticks nicknames anybody he gets a little close to.”

“The fifth.” Sticks feigned a sneer as he held up his gloved hand to flourish his fingers.

“No, no...” Ick stepped nearer the chemist, squinting. “Carey... Great-gramma talked about a Carey from Deenwood. General gave you the digs of a real dark an’ wicked man.”

‘Choly scrunched his chin into his neck to grimace down at his nameplate.

“Certainly looks so...” He laughed weakly in agreement. “How come great-gramma knew anything about _Deenwood_?”

“Furriers _came_ from that place. Our great-great gramparents served the General’s lot. She won’t let us back on base, but most of us don’t want to go back no ways.”

He could feel something in his skull pop.

“...Do you _want_ to go back?”

“Never been,” Ick shrugged. “Never met the General even. I... I can’t say. Got all I need in Voire. Sticks’s made it sound like Deenwood’s some kinda paradise full’a robot butlers, but what good would it do me to have a bunch’a robots do as I say?”

“Robots can do a lot of good,” he replied a little too readily, “...depending on whose care they provide.” He glanced to Angel in the doorway with a smile. “Angel’s become my everything as my health deteriorates.”

Sticks had watched to gauge the conflict, and his mouth hung open about to say something, but Ick grinned and patted ‘Choly’s hand in both of his good hands.

“Gettin’ old has its costs, just as everything else.” The old man laughed and took his mask from ‘Choly to put it back on. “Sticks, let’s turn over the ol’ Riverhawk and get ‘er over with. Wanna be back before dinner.”

“Music to my ears.”

Ick opened the wooden rolling shutter door of the shack beside his house, revealing a Pick-R-Up truck with paneling salvaged from three different colors--black, blue, and white. The old mummy popped the hood and cackled as he crawled around to check fluid levels on all the main lines. Meanwhile, ‘Choly and Angel followed Sticks’s lead loading up the cargo bed with two crates from the shack. A cradle mount jutted from the center of the bed into which the ghoul tossed his flamer.

“Mister Ick is most generous to be permitting us the use of his vehicle,” Angel lauded quietly.

“This is becoming an all day affair for certain.” ‘Choly took off his glasses to rub at his face a moment. “What the fuck is with the masks, Sticks? Do they think it’s Halloween every day now!”

Up in the cargo bed, Sticks slumped to sit on the crates to glare at him.

“Rhetorical question: Can you get your feet out of your mouth for two seconds?”

‘Choly’s face drooped, and he put his glasses back on.

“--Wait. You said there was a drainage pipeline from Deenwood to the river... Do you know where that empties out?”

“A half-baked theory, but an interesting one. You’re gonna drive me to smoke at this rate.” The ghoul shook his head. “I’d imagine that it emptied into what used to be the Christian Hill Reservoir. At least some of the cogs in that defrosted skull are turning. Not well, but. ...No. That pipeline empties out under O’Donnell Bridge. In case you were wondering why there’s such a crustacean issue there.”

“Then--” He deflated in a huffing pout. “You’re the only person being honest and full disclosure with me here, Jacob. Please... please just _tell me_.”

“You really don’t get it, do you? They’re family.” He grinned sarcastically at him. “All I can say is you’re right about it being Halloween every day for the Furriers. Symbols of harvest and unity celebrate this place. The masks are, ah. Ironic. Something for strangers to focus on over their folds. But they’re a nice leper colony. Pushy, and a real huge batch of weird, but they’re good people.”

“A leper colony that insists on throwing some kind of massive costume party before they’ll even consider agreeing to help Olivia Francis flush the raiders out of Lowell for good.”

The ghoul barked, and sniffed before laying into another roar of laughter.

“Costume party. That’s a good one. ...Which reminds me.” He jammed a finger his way. “Ick is probably the most milquetoast Furrier you could have unmasked. Don’t fuckin’ do that again if you value staying in one piece.”

“Are they really so grotesque?” Sticks deadpanned him and he screwed up his face. “Curiosity’s only worse now.”

Sticks mashed his face into his palm. Ick turned over the engine, and the ghoul stood up to square his footing and get his flamer properly mounted.

“Let’s just get in and out of Boott Mills already. Hopefully the wildlife stays small and manageable. Mating season can make Downtown recon hairy as sin.”

‘Choly hopped up on Angel with his syringer filled with pencils, to follow behind the pair in the truck. They made their way South out of Voire, and crossed Cox Bridge weaving through the vehicles long abandoned there. Once they crossed the river, Ick leaned out the window and waved ‘Choly to match pace. The Handy and chemist complied and the old mummy guffawed heartily, then spoke over the volume of the engine.

“Gawd almighty never met a body knew Sticks longer’n me. He’s lacked you something AWFUL. Told me all about you. Called you Mindy! You’re MINDY!”

'Choly paled, not knowing how to even begin to object.

“Oh, don’t choke on your humility, son,” Ick insisted. “Won’t tell a soul. Not my business to say a body’s a ghoul when he doesn’t look it.”

Sticks could hear it all through the window opening which once would have held a glass panel between the cab and the bed, and he frowned to ‘Choly apologetically.

“Guess you know for sure now, that you’re family,” the ghoul quipped sheepishly off the side of the truck. “They’re your _children_ , Mindy.”

The generational cascade of his military legacy crashed down on him like the sky shattered, and if Angel had not been steering he would have spilled off it.


	14. Volatility (Ch47)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think everybody just needs a moment to yell at the top of their lungs at this point.

Ick parked the Riverhawk right outside the loading dock of Boott Mills, and idled the engine while Sticks, Angel and ‘Choly separated from him to enter. The chemist didn’t notice his own shivering or hard frown as they inspected the rows of textile equipment in search of stock or freight. The corner of the far wall nearest the waterfront had collapsed, but they paid it little mind.

The three of them happened upon the quadrant of the mill which contained different equipment from the rest. Sticks mentally skimmed the workbenches and looms.

“Property of the S.C.Y.T.H.E. Program,” the ghoul murmured. “Never learned what that stands for.”

“You said the government had mills in Lowell crafting military fabrics? That’s what this is?”

“One of these crates has got to have at least one bolt of ballistics fiber ready to ship out,” the ghoul continued. He set down his flamer to start popping open the steamer-style metal crates one at a time, to rummage through contents.

“This is such a strange departure from our standard fare as of late, Mister Hawthorne. I’m so glad Mister Carey is getting some fresh air. He cooped himself up something awful for the longest. Only went out for business. He’s not handling all this mess so well.”

Sticks threw back down whatever he’d picked up to toss up his hands and halt the train of thought.

“Just... stop. Stop. I can’t handle this nonsense anymore. You’ve got to be fucking with me. You can’t be standing in front of me like this. You and your damn Handy.” Sticks’s head drifted side to side in semblance to denial. “If you hadn’t taken that spill by the river this morning, your coat would be titanium white spotless. You can’t possibly be two hundred fifty years old. Your ghost wouldn’t have come all this way to haunt my ass. Would he? I probably deserve it.” He snarled a scoff. “You’re not really here! So are you leading me to my death like a pelt, or are you trying to show me the way?”

‘Choly could only glare onward to him in fresh hurt. He couldn’t pinpoint what had set Sticks off at a different timing than his own disillusionment. Sticks gawked at him with an incredulous anticipation, nearly as though ‘Choly himself wore a mask he could remove and end the charade now that he’d been called out on it.

The chemist began to sweat at the recognition that dozens of dog-sized crabs had poured in through the opening in the outer wall, following the volume of the ghoul’s voice. An ankle-biter rushed Sticks’s leg and when it chomped down, he kicked it and whirled around to retrieve his weapon. In an instant an arc of flames erupted forward to fend off the crustaceans, who squealed in frustration at the sudden burst of heat. The ghoul yelled, furious, and let out a second spray.

“We shouldn’t use fire in here!” ‘Choly yelled after him, eyeing the various tanks and barrels scattered along the walls of the open space. “Especially since we haven’t retrieved the fabric yet!”

Angel, all circular saws, zoomed ahead of Sticks and set to cutting down the hatchlings. Meanwhile, the ghoul doubled back, desperate to locate their proverbial treasure chest. The scent of the hatchlings’ guts drew the attention of a matron crab, who lingered enraged at the opening in the wall. She couldn’t get more than her claw inside, but that was enough to send broken pieces of textile equipment flying. Angel fired its lasers at the matron, while ‘Choly tried to shoot it full of pencils.

Sticks ran for the loading dock and tossed his flamer on the truck mount, and yelled for Ick to follow him. The Furrier and ghoul doubled back to the military textile equipment to retrieve the crate which took the both of them to carry. The ghoul prodded Ick against their better judgment to load up as many S.C.Y.T.H.E. crates as they possibly could. Despite the chemist and Handy’s best efforts, the matron crab had not budged. But the ghoul could tell she’d gotten herself stuck.

“‘Choly, I think we’ll do best using fire after all,” Sticks bellowed. He pointed for Ick to grab one of the QUARPEL aerosol tanks. “Fling it! Hard as you can!”

The tank hit the cinder block rubble just inside the wall, and not the crab. But Sticks grinned anyway, motioning for the group to retreat to the loaded down truck. He leaped up to aim his flamer, and with a concentrated stream he ignited the textile coating chemical which had splattered all over the crab’s claw. As they sped off, the crab shrieked and battered more of the wall down. The flames spread through the work floor and several more tanks burst immediately. From the bridge, the team could see the crab had taken residence in a delivery van. Another tank of volatile chemicals burst, and the van flew into the river, divorced of its inhabitant.

When they heard a third series of explosions, they all unclenched in the confidence the crab would not be following them. They slowed across the bridge to weave back across it, laughing like crazy.

“So this is where you briefly consider keepin’ whatever it is we’re haulin’ for ourselves,” Ick joked. “Pitch to split it fifty-fifty. What good’s a couple hundred pounds of military fabric gonna do any of us on his own, though?”

“Represents a goddamn chance in hell against the Devils,” Sticks insisted, not even entertaining the nostalgia of pulling a con. His head still ran hot as he watched ‘Choly following behind the Riverhawk.

Much of Voire had gathered up to gawk down the street at the plume of smoke the four of them had caused. The Riverhawk pulled up to the reservoir house. Ick and Sticks tossed off the crates for Bones, who scrambled down the embankment to become a giggling tangle of limbs with the old mummy.

Sticks fell back to check on ‘Choly as the chemist dismounted and observed at a distance. Ick told Bones all about their blowing up the crab matron.

“God,” ‘Choly blurted out to the ghoul, “I can’t even begin to imagine what’s under those masks, though. If it’s even half as beautiful as you--”

“--You’ll get to see everyone’s faces if you really have to. Once they get to their goddamn communal orgy.” Sticks stewed at the comparison abutted to such tactlessness. ‘Choly’s face practically fell off. “You seem to respond better to bluntness. Yeah. They get all naked and pile together in the middle of town. And then once they’ve worn themselves out, they dress themselves in all new clothes. I don’t want to spoil the fun for you, but it gets _real_ messy.”

The chemist sniffed, appreciating that the Furriers crowded around Ick and not either of them at the moment.

“...You said something about an original formula?” He squinted up into the partly cloudy late afternoon sky. “I’m going to assume that one of the things that preoccupied Olivia all these years was refining X-Cell past its prototype stage? Addiction rate was godawful with that stuff, if memory serves.” He trailed off into a raunchy scoff. “An X-Cell enhanced orgy. Now that must be something.”

“I’m not some history textbook,” Sticks snipped. “I can appreciate that you’re here, but I don’t know the first goddamn thing about babysitting. You’re the first messenger she’s sent my way that I’ve given half a shit if they survived the trip to Voire.”

“...Angel, does this make the third or fourth time this week now I’ve nearly died?” ‘Choly didn’t blink, or wait for an answer, as he turned to face the ghoul. “Lexington burned because of me. Concord’s laden with gore. I gave myself acute radiation sickness getting frisky with a feral ghoul in Sanctuary. Bloodbugs stabbed me in the chest in Billerica. I got chased by flaming Assaultrons on my way on base. I could have gotten eaten by Merrilurks in Pawtucketville. And now I was nearly in an explosion in Lowell trying to escape a crab as big as a delivery truck. All in what I can only strongly believe was a week. Time’s trying to catch up to me. It’s all happening at once...” He crinkled his nose to adjust his glasses. “...I thought you said the Furriers were good folk.”

Sticks didn’t know what to say, wearing a mental flinch on his face.

“They thought you were a tribute because the confused and unfamiliar face is almost always expendable. I was negligent. The fact I can’t just offer you up for them to rip up for parts is the reason we had to run this extra errand for them, to be honest with you.”

“--Wait, you give half a shit that I’m still in one piece?”

“Half a-- Tch, yes. Yes, I do. If it’s really you,” Sticks warmed, “it’s the bee’s knees. Don’t know anybody who stands a better chance than you at setting the General straight. She’s gotten too twisted up in her own head. Lost track of reality. I’m surprised she could even accurately assess the Rust Devils are this much of a threat. ...Though, her paranoia has caused a false alarm before. And Angel’s the first robot I’ve noticed cross the Merrimack since I got here in 2090. Maybe we won’t have that big a problem.”

“You’re expecting me to get her out of her head when I can’t even get out of mine?” ‘Choly ugly laughed at him, slapping himself in the chest for emphasis. “I don’t know if I’m me. I don’t know _what_ I am anymore!”

“You’re a dumb fuck who’s been through nine circles of hell. Kind of fitting, I guess, that they turned a war criminal into a popsicle. Told you before, I’m not the same guy I was before the bomb. Something tells me it’s unfair to imagine that despite everything, you’re that much more yourself for it.”

‘Choly looked around as the Furriers dispersed back to their houses. The sun was starting to set, splashing chartreuse and orange across the sky. Ick and Bones still lingered.

“We’re staying the night in Voire, aren’t we?” he frowned.

“We head out at daybreak. Too dangerous to travel the waterways at night. That’s when the Merrilurks come out to hunt.” Sticks’s face scrunched up in displeasure. “Damn waste of crab meat to have to blow up the mill.”

“Still got those MREs...” ‘Choly deadpanned.

“Sooner eat my good hand.” Sticks started off toward the reservoir house. “Besides, we’re guests of honor for the night. Abiding Bones’s wishes is all the proof the Furriers need to know we’re good for the other half of the promise.”

“Promise of...” The chemist trailed off in a prurient lyric and a broken, sloppy grin.

“Haven’t changed one bit.”

Sticks stepped inside with Bones to speak in private, leaving ‘Choly, Angel, and Ick alone a spell. The mummy Furrier looked on expectantly at the chemist, and eventually took a hand in both his own.

“He’s not acting it, but I promise you Sticks is over the moon to have you back. Give him time to cool down. He’s having as much trouble accepting it as seems you are.” Ick leaned in. “Where you been all this time, anyway?”

“...On ice.” He sniffed, withdrawing his hand. “You really think you’re too old to participate in the Unfolding?”

“Depends. You think _you’re_ too old to participate?”

‘Choly doubled his face into both hands to sputter and cough at what he could only take as flirtation, all things considered. Sticks came out right after, and pulled down his welding goggles to look between them in confusion.

“So what can I do to help prepare dinner?” the ghoul insisted, nudging the four of them along back to Ick’s place.

“Oh!” Angel cried. “Do let me help you, Mister Ick!”

“A robot in the kitchen? ...Why the hell not.”

After a meal of roasted pelt and tatoes, the two slept in Ick’s garage in the back of the Riverhawk, on bedding of layers of leather and fur the Furrier had supplied them. Despite the chaos of the day, ‘Choly passed out immediately.

He shot awake in the middle of the night, the only lingering residue of the nightmare the memory of the sentiment that he’d become one of Deenwood’s enlisted. He panicked in the momentary disconnect of not recognizing where he’d fallen asleep, only to realize Sticks slept soundly feet away from him. His breathing evened out, but his mind went wild questioning the morality of supplying the Furriers with the same chems their ancestors had been subjected to through grueling human experimentation. He appeased himself only with the reassurance that he really didn’t have the full story just yet, and he wished the flamer mount didn’t separate him from curling up beside the man he thought he’d lost two hundred years ago.


	15. Exponentiation (Ch48)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: frank discussion of human experimentation.
> 
> There's two ways to dehumanize someone: tear them down or put them on a pedestal.

“Thank you again for the meals,” ‘Choly told Ick the next morning. “And the use of your vehicle. And your help. And, well. Everything.”

“Just sad I can’t drive ya right back to the base an’ drop you off,” the mummy Furrier replied as he stacked up the bowls by his wash basin. “Straight shot down cuts right through where you say the Rust Devils set up house. Mmm, though. The route to and fro will be clear soon enough. And then. Then the Riverhawk can take you both ways whenever you like.”

“Will that ever include a route down Pawtucket Boulevard?” Sticks thought aloud with whimsy.

“Wouldn’t have to worry ‘bout that, if you’d just move to Voire,” Ick started again, unable to resist the bait.

“We... really have to get going, Mister Ick,” ‘Choly interrupted, pulling Sticks toward the opening of the Furrier’s house. “The sooner we get back to Deenwood, the sooner we can return.”

The ghoul and old man both exchanged an endeared laugh as they were separated once again. Outside, ‘Choly mounted Angel, and they were on their way to retrace the path back to the military base. Even with the visor cutting the glare of the morning sun, ‘Choly could recognize the difference between his default physiology and how he’d felt on a heavy dose of Day Tripper. It wasn’t a painkiller, but hell if it hadn’t distracted him from his pain and exhaustion. He did his best not to complain of his stiffness, not to risk sounding ungrateful for Ick’s rather lavish amenities.

Once they had crossed out of Downtown back onto Pawtucket Boulevard, ‘Choly cleared his throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t think I could keep you from asking things,” Sticks replied, surveying for crabs. “You’re like a little kid seeing the world for the first time.”

He paused to re-steel himself.

“We weren’t together, before... were we?”

The ghoul scoffed a laugh, only to sober and straighten his gait.

“Oh. You were serious. Uh.” Sticks whet his lips, and chewed at them. “I wouldn’t have even given it half a thought back in the day. I’ll admit, I’ve been a lot more open minded as of late. Supposing I can owe that to being a bit lonely, but it’s not like I’ve done much in terms of remedying that. I... I don’t know.” He tossed a glance to the chemist riding a Handy, but kept his eyes on the road. “What, did you think of me like that before I, y’know?”

“My memory isn’t working like it should.” ‘Choly choked up on his deep flush. “I think it’s what was damaged worst by being frozen. Regardless, if I did like you before, I... hhhH-I think I _really_ like you now.”

When Sticks stopped in place, ‘Choly thought at first he’d spotted a threat. But when Angel continued on ahead of him, he stopped the Handy and turned to look at the ghoul.

“Tch. Don’t know why I’m even surprised. You’d watch monster movies and then take a thirty minute shower after. Guess I’m still all looks and no substance.”

“--Oh hhh h-all the substances,” the chemist blurted out, only to smear his face in stupidity. “That’s not what I--”

Sticks pressed onward again with a frown, and ‘Choly and Angel followed.

“I can’t handle this right now. I’m still adjusting to learning a day ago that you’re even alive. I feel like we’ve both got a lot to work through here. Give me a minute. I’ve got to grab some shit.”

“...That’s not a no.”

“--Mister Carey,” Angel scolded, stopping far back a ways to separate the two, while the ghoul went inside the restaurant at the Sampas Pavilion.

At a distance, the chemist could tell the ghoul had gestured around the front door not unlike some kind of secret handshake. He thought perhaps it had been him gesticulating while he spoke to himself, but a few minutes after he’d vanished inside ‘Choly understood it to have been disarming a handcrafted home security system of sorts. Recalling that Sticks had done the same upon their departure affirmed his presumptions.

‘Choly dismounted Angel and took to his cane, to get out of the street. The pavilion itself lay across the road from the restaurant, a slab of concrete with four latticed metal pillars connected at the top. He stood in the center of it, and stared up into the metal work. Nearly ladder-like, he thought. He tried to remember what the phrase _Jacob’s ladder_ meant, but Sticks approached him now toting a satchel, and the deliberation sublimated.

Meeting no resistance, they went the rest of the way down to the base in silence. ‘Choly took Sticks in the West entrance, to avoid Rust Devil activity. The biometric scanners seemed to have the ghoul on file from previous visits to the base, and didn’t object to him. The same Mister Gutsy met them once they passed the first boom barrier.

“Captain Carey, you’re late again. The General was starting to worry the enemy had gotten you. I see you’ve brought the entrepreneur Sticks with you. Explains why you were waylaid. The General has indicated he cannot be permitted on premises without escort. Do not let him out of your immediate company.”

“So good to see you, too,” the ghoul shrugged off.

“I don’t intend to take my eyes off him,” ‘Choly insisted, watching as Sticks took the lead of even Green Seven to meet General Francis. He bit at his lip when he realized how it must have sounded, but said nothing further.

Sticks opened the General’s office door to let them all in, and he waved enthusiastically to find she had her Assaultron with her.

“Oh, Helen. It’s so wonderful to see you,” he greeted with lyric. “How are the kids?”

“I am inorganic and Olivia is sterile,” the robot replied. “In the possibility you are suggesting that her supervision and maintenance of the base’s robotics redefines them as her adoptive children, they are exceptionally lethal and high-functioning as usual. Thank you.”

Once the office had shut again, Olivia marinated on the cold shoulder, and undesired company, only to warm into a chuckle.

“Good morning,” she grinned. “Considering you survived the trip, I’m to expect you have good news.”

“The Furriers agreed to help,” ‘Choly blurted out. He bit his tongue, not to lash out at knowing she’d drugged him before.

She clasped her hands together in a stiff pleasantry, knowing exactly why Sticks had come. The ghouls made eye contact, but said nothing to one another. She knew better than to pour any of them a drink.

“For your trouble, I believe a promotion is in order.” She stood. “How does... Colonel Carey sound? It’s only right.”

Thrown for a loop, ‘Choly had to process the proposition for a moment. When she gave him a persuasive grin and a murmur, he scrunched his face up in cognizance of the ramifications of the title.

“I’ll bite.” He sat to ease his posture and smooth his confidence. “Funny you mention it. MKExcell would be to my pay grade, then, wouldn’t it? The sachem agreed because Sticks promised the Furriers a hundred units of X-Cell. Love to know how they’ve managed to form such an unrepentant habit for a confidential chem.”

Her face slacked, and she crossed her arms behind her back to pace. Sticks made himself comfortable leaning in the far corner behind the door.

“You’re a few centuries behind in debriefing. It’s not necessarily on topic, but I suppose I can catch you up, since the other day a history lesson sounded like why you came to Deenwood in the first place.” She glanced over to Sticks, who neither budged nor seemed to care. “What the Furriers want is called X-Cell-Root. It’s the earliest and least stable test formulation of X-Cell.” She paused only a moment to make eye contact with ‘Choly again. “Are you sure I couldn’t interest you in a drink?”

“Just tell him why I have to play your middle man,” Sticks snipped. “Better from your mouth than mine.”

Any composure she had crumbled apart like a fallen cake. She poured herself a drink, and sat to keep herself from pacing.

“MKExcell... subsisted of ten branches of research. The results of seven of them went toward formulating what is now known as X-Cell. The next step was to refine and perfect the performance chem. During the war effort, there were many fields of study as to how to create the perfect soldier. There... was also talk of creating the opposite: a chem which could weaken opposition without lethal intent. X-Cell-Root exited prototype phase about two years before the new world order began. X-Cell circulated on the black market for a good bit until its high addiction rate began to indicate that even spaced out usage bioaccumulated the compounds in the user. Withdrawals effectively disintegrate the user’s immune system, and eventually begin deteriorating all sugar compounds in the body.

“...And that’s where you come in, Melancholy. Like I’ve said, I’ve read up on all the DIA documents on base, and I’ll admit I brushed up on you once you arrived. The Psycho branch of research was one of the three that didn’t actively contribute to the formulation of X-Cell, but you did good work. Good, loyal work. You wanted to know what your return to active duty would have entailed? They wanted you to work on phase two of MKExcell--MKExceed.”

‘Choly’s face drooped in stupor, but she rattled on undeterred.

“As I’ve told you, I was already on base working on the project when the nuclear exchange transpired, and I continued my research despite the apocalypse. X-Seed remained lethal for years. I ran out of test subjects, and worked with what I had on hand, collecting ferals and raiders alike. I extended the offer for voluntary testing to the locals--the Furriers--in exchange for weapons and first aid provisions. All they ever want these days is chems.”

“--I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.” ‘Choly rubbed at his head in exasperation, being given on a silver platter what he had sought. “The Furriers all but told me outright that they’re descendants of enlisted soldiers dispossessed from Deenwood.” She sighed and shoved an anxious smile behind another sip of liquor, but he didn’t stop there. “If Deenwood’s casualties were, from the sound of it, at a consequence of chem testing, not radiation, then how did you become a ghoul?”

Sticks couldn’t contain a sarcastic snort, only to hold up his hands when she glared his way.

“I... was not forthwith regarding on base survivors. Confidentiality of MKExceed, you know.” Olivia softened. “The original drive to continue the MKExceed project was the hope that it might provide a... cure. I was exposed to an X-Seed formulation that instigated an acute onset of cancer. Using several Fusion Cores, I rigged a way to give myself radiation treatments. I’ve never said I had the strongest command of radiology.” A taut self-conscious smile pulled her into herself like a drawstring. “At least it’s bought me all the time in the world to continue my research. I’ve managed to formulate an X-Seed that doesn’t mutilate those exposed to it. And while I've also successfully created a stable formula of X-Cell without addiction rates, I haven’t yet ironed out the hefty side effects of withdrawal symptoms that come with X-Seed. You might find some legitimate benefit in X-Cell-Squared, all things considered.”

She reached into her desk to produce an inhaler with four ridged ampuoles jutting back from the actuator and perpendicular to one another. When she set it in front of ‘Choly, he gawked at it, then around the room for advice. Angel said nothing. Sticks shrugged. Olivia’s enthusiasm only increased. He inhaled sharply and accepted it.

“I’ll have to think about taking it. In private.”

“Quite fine. First one’s on me.” She unclenched when he pocketed it. “It will take me about a day to synthesize the amount of chem the Furriers are requesting. The three of you are to stay on base until I can send you on your way with it. Keep Sticks in check, won’t you, Colonel?”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Sticks muttered playfully, falling in line and more than ready to get out of the same room with her.

“Old habits die hard,” she replied as they left.

“Don’t they ever,” ‘Choly sighed under his breath.


	16. Back Issue (Ch49)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It must have been that silt bean he ate.
> 
> TWs: drug use, mildly sensual.

‘Choly took Sticks back to his rowhouse in the Deenwood officers’ residential. Angel busied itself in the kitchen. Sticks tossed down his flamethrower beside the golf bag in the corner, and atop it his coat, goggles, and ushanka.

“This place have a shower?” the ghoul asked, looking up the stairs in a tank top.

‘Choly’s scalped tensed, recalling Olivia’s caveat. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the texture of the ghoul’s arms which likely covered him head to toe.

“I haven’t tried the plumbing since I got here.” _You’re smoothskin_. “There’s showers in the enlisted barracks, if you’d--”

“--Nah, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather a good old fashioned one-person bath. It’s been a couple weeks.” He started upstairs.

“Olivia told me the residential plumbing wasn’t safe,” he finally spilled out.

Sticks paused a moment before continuing upward.

“For you, definitely not.”

“...Then she wasn’t lying about it being safe for ghouls?”

The ghoul stopped at the upstairs landing.

“Therapeutic, even.”

Once ‘Choly heard the bathroom door shut, he milled about to survey whether his belongings had remained untouched in his absence. Soon after, the water started, and he found himself upstairs as well, under the guise of assessing his closet effects.

He decided that, during their day on base, he didn’t want to wear his uniform. Stripping out of it, he instead wore the golfing ensemble he’d compiled not a week ago: the cobalt pinstripe dress shirt with white contrast collar and cuffs, the golfing khakis, the mismatched striped and argyle knee high socks, the geranium red cashmere. He stood at length with his arms wrapped across themselves, running his hands over the softness of the sweater as he stared at himself in the broken closet mirror. _I’m not a war criminal. Am I?_ He remembered who’d given him the clothing he’d put on, and knew that he had more important problems to take care of than attempting some vague metric of his morality.

The water had stopped long ago. The bathroom door opened, for Sticks to sit on the side of ‘Choly’s bed to put his gloved left hand back on. Now wearing a Beaver Creek Alley bowling shirt and a pair of khaki slacks, the blond ghoul snorted through his lack of a nose as he noticed the chemist had joined him upstairs, and noticed the odd ensemble.

“Still fixated on dressing uncanny-sharp.” Sticks rubbed at his short under-chin beard. “Form over function’s such an ill fit in the Wasteland. Still, though. It’s nice to feel like I can disregard a need for functionality or security once in a while. Let my guard down and just be _comfortable_.”

“I just want to be able to stop and _breathe_ and _relax_ for five seconds.” ‘Choly’s hands dropped to his side as he mirrored the regard for the other man’s outfit, and they ended up in his pockets to disguise the exasperation in his body language. “...So you don’t wholly distrust Liv?”

“I only distrust her chem habits.” Sticks slouched back on the bed in dislike of his recollection. “God, she was one of your coworkers. No wonder you had such a hangup over administering chems yourself. I remember that one meltdown you had. Somebody came into the pharmacy, hadn’t used Med-X before. And you had to show them how. Your boss sent you home before lunch. It’s one of the only times you ever beat me home.”

‘Choly’s glasses slipped down his nose as his face slacked, and his cataracted gaze oozed out over the top of them.

“If I didn’t administer, I had to observe. Most days, I didn’t have the nerve to administer. She did. I... I saw things. A lot of things.” He flinched, forcing himself to instead remember how heavily he relied on the Melancholia to psychologically survive his military career. “I... I think silt bean flour would work as an ingredient substitute. Angel says it remembers one of the main ingredients was soy, so. I found some on my way through Billerica. You’re good in the kitchen. Would you help me dry roast them?”

Sticks could recognize the request for a meaningful distraction. He stood, grabbed his bag beside the baseboard, and gestured for ‘Choly to exit first. The two returned downstairs. Angel flitted about on the back patio, though neither could tell exactly what it was on about.

The Handy had placed the silt beans in the refrigerator. The chemist and entrepreneur sat at the kitchen table, peeling from their pods the beans and collecting them in a deep bowl. 'Choly kept finding himself spacing out, staring, and smiling as he watched Sticks split the pods with his gloved hand and retrieving the beans with his other. He cleared his throat and picked up another pod to work at.

“You didn’t weigh in earlier... Do you think I should try the X-Cell-Squared? Should I trust Olivia’s word, that it doesn’t have withdrawal issues?”

The ghoul thought a moment, but didn’t stop working.

“Ultimately, it’s your call. Your body, not mine. You want my opinion, though. If you run the risk of not feeling normal without it, I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s a lot of different ways to feel addicted to--and withdrawals from--junk.”

‘Choly did and didn’t like this kind of an answer from someone who had been, and likely still was, a chem dealer. He couldn’t tell how honest anyone was being with him anymore, or what motive honesty could have. He popped a raw bean in his mouth in compulsion and chewed it. Expecting a raw, grassy flavor, he warmed instead to its starchy vague butteriness. Maybe he _was_ just paranoid of everyone.

The two finished the first step of the task, and moved on to the second. Sticks spread out the beans in a frying pan. He used a match to ignite the pilot light on the back burner of the oven’s stove, then adjusted the flame to the lowest it’d go. He turned and started to say something, only for ‘Choly to lean up and grab his shirt, to press their lips together. Despite the abruptness of it, Sticks didn’t stop ‘Choly, and eventually kissed him back. He pulled back, slowly, with a dark heavy-lidded glance, and he ran his right hand around the back side of ‘Choly’s head as a smile tugged at each of them.

They both readily kissed again. Sticks backed ‘Choly against the kitchen table, who then sat atop it to compensate for being the shorter of the two, and dragged the ghoul back atop him as their tongues frustrated one another. The chemist removed his glasses and lost them behind him, letting out a wheeze when the ghoul let him lick the edges of the gap in the corner of his top lip.

“Perhaps my prior assessment of the relationship between the two of you was mistaken.” They both jumped, finding Angel’s ocular lenses inches from both their face. Angel’s lenses flickered before it withdrew them. “Forgive my intrusion. I’ll excuse myself.”

“--Angel, wait. Agh.”

‘Choly shot upright with a groan to reach out for the Mister Handy, who returned outside. His hair felt like it had fallen from its french twist, and he compulsively smoothed at it. Then he turned to find Sticks had walked into the living area, to help himself to the dry bar cabinet Angel had added all ‘Choly’s spirits into. After one shot of whiskey, the ghoul took a second with him to sit on the couch.

“If you’re in the market for some fantasy fulfillment, you might as well return the favor.”

Sticks set down his glass on the coffee table, to dig through the bag he’d set down there. He pulled out the lingerie catalogue and waved it knowingly at him. ‘Choly shakily put his glasses back on and a hand crept over his mouth in knit-brow shock of what meaning or purpose laying eyes on the thing again could have possibly been intended. He sank to kneel beside Sticks, readily accepting some unspoken proposition, and ran a hand over the top of the ghoul’s trouser sock, before slipping it under the hem of his slacks to push up the pant leg and caress his leg. In reflex Sticks jerked his leg out of ‘Choly’s hands, his knee coiled back and away, and he stared at him in bewilderment at length before he couldn’t contain a sharp, difficult laugh.

“Mindy, I think you and I had very different reasons for eyeing the same woman.” The ghoul reached forward to set down the catalogue. He retrieved his whiskey, and downed it, then patted ‘Choly on the head. In a stupor, the chemist pushed himself up off the floor, to sit beside him, hands in his lap wringing together for lack of knowing where else to possibly put them.

“If it’s all the same, maybe... Maybe we could just... Sit together on the couch for a while...” He couldn’t contain anxious pouting.

“...While the beans dry?”

“...While the beans dry.”

“You've got me for the time being...” Sticks put an arm across the back of the couch, around ‘Choly’s shoulder, and stared at the peeling ceiling. “What do you intend to do with that? Did you really think you could just continue where you left off? Nothing is the same as it was before the War. Not even you. You’ve looked in a mirror, right.”

When ‘Choly shrank against his chest, Sticks held him. The ghoul said nothing when he could feel the small man shaking with silent tears, and simply held him more firmly.

“I’ve never experienced a golden age in my life, but my brain keeps telling me that literally anything I had before stepping foot in that fucking vault could be better than life after the war. The world ended! Only the dead and dead-inside carry on.”

The hard resolve overwhelmed ‘Choly then, to break his promise to Angel, and he found himself seriously deliberating the best or easiest way to reclaim the Melancholy’s salts from its storage compartment without conflict. He nearly spoke aloud of it, to get Sticks’s input, but shut his mouth again, both for fear that he’d increased Angel’s ability to eavesdrop on him by upgrading its sensory matrix... and for guilt and self-awareness how it likely would sound to tell his once-roommate that he felt the strong drive to suffocate his emotions with drugs.

Sticks saw the look in ‘Choly’s eyes, and his features slacked before he bent forward to retrieve something from his bag. With a plaintive glance, he offered ‘Choly a thin metal syringe of pale purple fluid.

“Case you didn’t pick up on it by now, _Sticks_ is also on account of the needles attached to most of the junk I have to offer.”

‘Choly snorted in a sudden agonized smile at the awful pun, and held the chem in his lap with his eyes shut tight as he tried to get himself to stop crying. _Maybe I could use the Med-X in the Melancholia, instead of begging or sneaking the salts._ He looked up when he could tell he was shaking his head at himself, and looked to Sticks, who wore a bated objection on his thin lips. Immediately sensing himself misinterpreted, ‘Choly steadied his leg against the cushion of the couch and held the syringe flush and perpendicular to his thigh, then seethed through his teeth when he depressed the plunger. The needle jutted through the fabric of his pants and his flesh to impart the chemical into his bloodstream.

 _I need it now more than I’ll need it later_.

Sticks patted him on the shoulder and retrieved the empty syringe, then stood to check on the silt beans. ‘Choly set his glasses on the coffee table and let the heavy low overtake him as he laid down across the couch and curled up to stare at nothing.

The next thing that ‘Choly noticed was a loud grinding from the kitchen. He sat up and put his eyes back on to hobble over to investigate. He licked at his dry lips to see the ghoul had begun on the next step of the process: pulverizing the roasted beans into a powder. When ‘Choly sat in the kitchen, Sticks noticed and stopped, to hold up the pitcher of the blender.

“How much of that stuff you think this will make you?”

“I... I don’t know, maybe six. Eight.” ‘Choly rubbed at his forehead a bit. “It definitely smells right in here.”

“I take it we’re spitballing it. What else are you thinking goes into it?”

“...You keep working on beans.” He stood again. “I’ll go get what parts I do remember.”

The chemist vanished upstairs, only to return with a careful armful of various toiletries. Once he had set them all down, the ghoul presented the pitcher in front of him without the lid.

“When Angel went to borrow the blender, it also brought back measuring cups, if that helps.” The ghoul’s face scrunched up in a poorly hidden grimace at identifying what lay spread out on the table. “Exactly how far gone are you right now?”

“About as far as one of these usually carries me.” ‘Choly started squeezing out toothpaste into one of the cups. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Go on.”

He sniffed and scrunched his nose to push his glasses back up his nose, then proceeded to add toothpaste, a bottle of mouthwash, and a can of purified water. He fidgeted with the mechanisms of a Stimpak, but rather than waste the healing substance, set it down in agitation when he felt like he’d almost set off the pneumatic plunger. He rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses, then frowned at a fascinated Sticks.

“Your fine motor skills seem better than mine. Can you open up plunger end of all the reservoirs and pour in whole thing? Other one, too.”

“You... ’re putting Stimpak in something you intend to drink.”

“All right, all right. I know how stupid it sounds. I don’t remember what was going through my head, day it struck me to try _drinking_ one. All I remember is, other stuff’s for covering up awful taste. Base is Stimpak.”

“The Stimpak’s awful, but the mouthwash is okay? And the toothpaste?”

‘Choly rolled his eyes in gratitude when Sticks sat down and resigned to the request.

“Touché.”

After another pass on the blender blades, Sticks poured a drinking glass about a third full of the now clearish yellow liquid, and set it before his friend. The ghoul sat with the pitcher and watched expectantly.

“You sure you’re not a vampire or something?”

“Bozhemoy if I’ve blocked out that there’s supposed to be blood in this.” ‘Choly clutched at his chest at the mere idea of it, only to seethe it out in one breath and pick up the glass to smell it. When it didn’t seem unappetizing, he took a sip and let it coat his mouth before swallowing. He licked at the front of his teeth with a sneer, then took another swig. “Yeah, mint and cinnamon don’t cover it up near as well as cherry.”

“Besides the flavor, you think you got it close to the prewar recipe?”

“Besides the flavor.” He melted into a dull stupor, and nursed at the drink, unable to enjoy his success. Distantly, he murmured to himself under his breath in Russian. Now that he knew what was in the MREs, was it really all that bad to eat them? It was just Day Tripper. “If she considers me colonel now, why didn’t she ask me to help her synthesize X-Root?”

“Technically, she didn’t really promote you. She hasn’t updated your designation... things on your coat, whatever they’re called. She just disclosed stuff to you that would’ve been confidential to someone of a rank lower than colonel.” Sticks’s face tightened, and he leaned just the slightest bit nearer with a slight squint. “What was that first part again?”

“I said--” ‘Choly stuttered a breath out of his nose and slouched. He set down the glass a little too hard, and glared at Sticks with a proud hiss. “I said, _mne naplevat’ chto vse menya trakhayut_.” He flicked the fig at him and slouched to finish off what remained of his initial batch sampling.

The ghoul straightened with a shit-eating grin, and, pointing at him, slowly wagged his finger with a growing chuckle.

“You kissed me with that mouth. Ha! Angel wouldn’t... gladly translate for me, now, would it?”

With a self-inflected glower, the chemist poured himself another third of a glass.

“Fuck off, Jacob.”

Sticks rested his cheek against a propped up fist, and probably couldn’t grin any wider, in stunned delight.

“Shit, I’m just learning so much about you today, Mindy.”

“I don’t know what use it would serve Olivia to register-- me...” He trailed off again in thought, dismissing the sharp nosedive the conversation had taken. His eyes widened, and he slapped the table with one hand. “...In system as colonel! I. I have to get her to upgrade me in system. Have Deenwood recognize me.”

The ghoul sobered to squint again.

“...Why.”

The more he explained himself, the more his face slacked into a vague smile.

“There’s got to be things I could gain access to by having my rank that high. I’d be directly under her. Provided she didn’t lock everything behind an O6 pay grade, I might get information _worth_ having come all this way for. I took trouble to get up here. Thought some kind of DIA breach was risking Deenwood assets falling into raider hands. But, I had everything about it all wrong... Bozhemoy, what if I could get those formulas. I could cook up anything this base has ever made.”

Sticks mirrored ‘Choly’s dumbstruck awe.

“If you didn’t already have my full attention, you certainly do now.”


	17. Mouthful (Ch50)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: NSFW, drugs, navigation of toxic fetishization and strong dysphoria, amputation/prosthesis focus, minor blood mention.
> 
> Speak in tongues.

Having made dinner off a serving of leftover smoked pelt from Ick, Sticks rinsed out his melamine bowl in the kitchen sink. Dish rag and bowl in hand, the snickering ghoul turned to ‘Choly, who still swam in the dull of the Med-X.

“Say something else in Russian.”

‘Choly blinked, and stared at him, from where he sat at the kitchen table.

“Like what? Why?”

“I don’t know, whatever you want.”

“ _Bozhe, pomogi mne_.” He rolled his eyes, his face long and irritable. “You do know my father was Chinese.”

Sticks just laughed harder and grabbed him up to hug him.

“Does that mean you can say shit in Chinese, too? God, you’re a mess, Mindy. It’s a wonder they had you cooking Psycho instead of acting as a spy.”

‘Choly sputtered, noticing that Sticks had trailed off as his hand had run down his back, tracing at the orthotics lacing through his shirt and sweater. The insinuation choked him.

“This is why I don’t like using Med-X. Tangles up my tongue. Whh we should go upstairs. Wind down for bed.”

When Sticks quietened, very obviously taking it for entendre, ‘Choly squirmed. Upstairs, the ghoul sat on the bed while ‘Choly paced between his bedroom and the hall which ran between it and his office. The chemist had half a mind to disengage this stress altogether and sit in his office in the dark for a while, but he promised not to let Sticks out of his sight. There was just the one bed, he realized, and for the same reason he couldn’t split on Sticks, he couldn’t let either of them sleep on the couch while the other took the mattress. Unable to leave well enough alone, he thought again to the catalogue misunderstanding, and glanced around the room.

“I got one thing from catalogue, but you got another. What exactly were you asking me for downstairs? Spell it out for me. I’m only denser under painkillers.”

Sticks couldn’t make eye contact either, staring off at the ceiling with a faint smile.

“I… remember bits and pieces about you, from before. Like, I remember you had a corset, even back then. Saw glimpses of it when Angel did your laundry. And you have one on right now. I felt of it.” Smiling self-consciously with lips pressed tight, Sticks became uncharacteristically stuck on expressing himself, as though the words had sublimated into glue in his mouth. “I love lingerie. Garters, corsets, all that kind of stuff. I think a guy would be just as sexy in it as a girl.”

As ‘Choly resumed pacing, a hand rested on his chest, his breath fluttering. Sticks would surely ask ‘Choly to remove the corset. With how Sticks had considered all ‘Choly’s honesty and ‘true colors’ utter absurdity, he both felt no other choice but to come out with this too and no other outcome than to be laughed off for it like everything else. He stood in his room again. His mouth hung open as he tried to find the words to even begin to explain himself, only for Sticks to speak up first.

“…What… what does it look like?” Sticks reached out wanting to stroke ‘Choly’s side. “The one you’ve got now?”

‘Choly blinked, and moved to switch from the overhead light to the side lamp. He stepped closer and permitted Sticks’s touch. Disrobing would probably be the easiest way.

“It’s nothing Duchesne would wear,” he apologized, stiff as Sticks leaned nearer to run his hands all along both ‘Choly’s sides and his back. “It’s canvas. Medical. Just like wrist and ankle braces. Uh.”

‘Choly bit at his lip as he untucked his striped dress shirt, which he unbuttoned but left on. Sticks’s face slacked as he awed over the uniform boning lines in the corset, but he abruptly squirmed back on the bed to remove his glove with its prosthetic hand. He beckoned ‘Choly onto the bed with him, who followed with uncertainty. Where they knelt in the middle of the bed, Sticks steadied ‘Choly’s shy face with his left wrist while he picked the bobby pins from his hair with his right. The chemist couldn’t understand why Sticks had done either of these things. He worried that having his hair down in this state of undress would only hasten what conclusion he felt inevitable. The Med-X didn’t diminish how his head and heart raced.

“However useful it is, I can’t feel a damn thing with the glove hand,” Sticks explained, sensing the confusion. “I want to… feel this.” He tousled ‘Choly’s dark hair free once he got all the pins out, and admired how curly it was from being constantly pinned up, letting his fingers wrap in the coils in places. He removed ‘Choly’s glasses and put them on the nightstand with his glove, then lovingly looked him over. “God, man. Your hair’s gorgeous. You’ve never been in the habit of just… leaving it down. You… should. Sometimes. I imagine it… smells amazing…”

Sticks leaned in to smell of it while he resumed petting the sides and back of the corset. Being smelled of jolted ‘Choly electric, and he shivered with a nasal stutter, nudging Sticks to kiss him. Gradually, they melted into horizontal heavy petting. ‘Choly traced Sticks’s nasal opening with his tongue and Sticks pulled away with an awkward choking chuckle.

“Let’s… not do that. Maybe.”

‘Choly interpreted the boundary request instead as one to keep to Sticks’s kinks. He noticed his Pip-Boy wasn’t clicking like he would have expected, and took it off in a mixture of frustration and relief that he wouldn’t have to take Rad-X after all. It hadn’t chittered downstairs on the kitchen table, either. _Why is this so hard when it came so easy with feral?_ He reclined again, whispering husky in the ghoul’s ear.

“You know, I have different catalogue if you like this corset. Lexington pharmacy didn’t have any there, but… catalogue lists warehouse in Nashua. New Hampshire. That’s… right up river, yes? Full body orthotics. Crafted leather. … _Fan lacing_ …”

The more detail he provided, the more heatedly Sticks felt him up.

“Then this is to keep your spine put,” Sticks deduced. “…Leather, you say? God, you’ve got to show me this book. You… would wear that for me? If we got it for you?”

Sticks’s enthusiasm and interest softened ‘Choly. He really didn’t hate the thought of having and wearing the leather orthotics. After all, without the wheelchair from Lex Walden, he’d have to figure out other ways to retain mobility. Forcing himself to focus on the sex act, he slipped atop Sticks and curled his hips to rub his butt against Sticks’s crotch. He straightened and spaced out, his delirium escaping him uttered in Russian.

He sobered instantly when Sticks began spreading ‘Choly’s legs so as to stroke them in kind to the corsetry. Pinning down the ghoul’s hand and wrist, he ground breathily to buy himself some time and tease him in the same measure. 'Choly’s eyes widened at the recognition that the ghoul _had_ anything to grind against. Self-consciousness introduced an inertia to his gyration. _This is Jacob Hawthorne. Mutated, disfigured Jacob. Rational, lucid._ Real. _I’ve never put him first in my life. I’ve. I’ve got to._ He shoved down any self-indulgence. His sex only stood to hurt this very real person beneath him. He recognized he’d lapsed verbally again, and stitched into an aching grin.

“I… I could kiss you with this mouth… or I could…”

‘Choly sank down to run his hands along Sticks’s sides and hips and unbuttoned his slacks. He glanced up at Sticks while he ran a hand over his crotch through his boxers. Sticks’s foot twitched.

“You… wouldn’t want to add Greek to that laundry list, would you?”

The ghoul’s proposition didn’t compute at first. ‘Choly couldn’t grasp which way he’d meant it. Surely, he couldn’t have meant it-- He laughed like broken silver, flushing bright red. _And we both think_ I’m _the dense one. Just let me put you first, you idiot_. Rather than mention his incredulity, he moved to free Sticks from his underwear.

“It’s my first time, with anything, with anyone,” fell out of ‘Choly as he eyed what Sticks had. The length didn’t strike him as anything extraordinary, but the girth of it had him wondering how to even go about anything at all. He licked at the side of it, knowing exactly how he’d want to appreciate that the wiry keloid textures traversed even this far south, but not having the first clue what might please Sticks most. “I think it’s good way to begin.”

A lyrical breath trickled out of the ghoul’s nasal cavity as ‘Choly’s lips went around him, and tried to fit over him, a breath which jolted into a delighted groan as his tongue pressed underneath. What ‘Choly had said got him trying not to cackle in a vapor of disbelief and delight; clapping his hand over his own mouth did not contain the sound from still coming out his lack of a nose.

“Jesus Christ, you were in the army _how long_ and you never even--” His hips flinched as another moan cut him off. “Always thought you’d have been the one demanding attention, not doling it out.”

‘Choly slouched forward, his hair spilling over his shoulders, and he glanced up to Sticks as he pulled off. Licking at the sinewy texture was driving ‘Choly wild, but he couldn’t tell if it did any good.

“This isn’t how to demand your attention?” His eyes drooped shut and his native tongue murmured his overstimulation before dipping against Sticks again. “Another meaning for ‘ _Sticks_ ,’ mm? Let me know if I’m doing this right.”

Greed overpowered his compunction, and he dipped his hands underneath Sticks to hold his scarred buttocks while he did his best to fit all of him in his mouth. He couldn’t move his tongue around much like this, but he could at least bob and pull his lips and tongue along it. Sticks’s hand and wrist went to either side of ‘Choly’s head, to pet his hair. 'Choly found himself drooling to excess, and had to pause a moment to swallow. The almost metallic muskiness of the taste of Sticks in his mouth left him heady and even greedier to experience not just a dick, but a ghoul dick. _His_ dick.

A ragged, rasping moan tore out of Sticks as ‘Choly found his tempo. ‘Choly’s eyes shot open before knitting shut with determination, his rationality come undone. _God, this is driving him feral_. He wouldn’t beg Sticks to make that sound for him, but he _would_ do everything in his power to draw it out of him. Approximating Sticks’s moaning to his ecstasy and madness, his nasal breathing stitched viscous, desperate, and erratic.

When Sticks sat up but didn’t push ‘Choly off him, ‘Choly thought at first he’d done something uncomfortable. But Sticks’s hand dipped between ‘Choly’s shoulder blades to stiffly drink in the eyelets and cord which decorated the curvature of his back, and his wrist urged ‘Choly to continue. _God, yes, feed the insect._ In his mind, his tongue and Sticks’s thickness became ravenous lapping worms, and a hand wandered to cup the ghoul’s balls practically begging him replete.

Sticks locked up with a guttural gag, and with a series of jagged hip jerks, coated ‘Choly’s mouth with himself. Despite anticipation and preparation, ‘Choly held the thick, heavy musk in his mouth, and no matter how badly he wanted to swallow what had been gifted him, the reflex simply wouldn’t come. His ears rang, the longer he tried. Pursing his lips shut, ‘Choly sat up and let Sticks lay back, before shooting up off the bed to expectorate. He spat repeatedly, reaming his tongue against his teeth in an attempt to rid his mouth of the overwhelming taste and consistency, and grabbed for what was left of his mouthwash.

‘Choly glanced at himself in the broken mirror. He stopped swishing, holding the antiseptic in his mouth as his jaw drooped. A trickle of blood had pooled up around his nostril, starting to drip down his upper lip. The implications of having tried to swallow burned in his ears, and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand in agitation that he had been unable to make himself follow through. _So at least that part of him still exhibits rads_... He gargled and spat out the minty stuff. He might not have swallowed, but he still now contained a part of Sticks. _Maybe ghouls and ferals have just enough key things in common after all._

Sticks had rolled over to watch from the bed.

“Sure didn’t feel like that was your first time. ...You all right?”

“...I used all my toothpaste earlier.” He spat one last time in an attempt to dislodge the taste. “Are you sure you’re all right with...”

“I wouldn’t be averse to returning the favor, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sticks grinned at him knowingly. “You’re good at that, in case you couldn’t tell.”

He struggled to keep his breathing in line as he leaned forward on the counter.

“I, no. Doing that for you was plenty enough stimulation for me. But.” He stared at himself, licking at his lips and trying not to scowl. “...I can’t sleep in the corset.”

“...Unfortunate, but understandable.” The ghoul’s grin melted into a dopey drowsiness. “I’m not gonna make fun of your pajamas. Or lack of them, if that’s the case.”

“--Mostly been sleeping in undershirts, if I undress at all.” The burning in his ears turned to ringing, and he straightened to focus on removing his wrist and ankle braces. He sniffed to himself. “What I had before. It wasn’t a corset. It was a bust flattener.”

“Tch. So it was an antique. So’re you.”

The admission wouldn’t come outright, so he just gave up trying, and he dipped into the closet to change. The light didn’t work anymore, so he had to leave the door open.

“I just cannot believe there’s articles like that, that provide form _and_ function...”

‘Choly glanced to double-check that Sticks wasn’t watching him, and hastily finished removing the corset and his golfing ensemble. With his back to him, he put on an undershirt, and wrapped himself up in his robe. By the time he came back to the bed, Sticks was down to a tank and boxers, and had folded down the hospital blanket for him. Sticks reached to turn out the lamp, and ‘Choly slipped into the bed facing away from him.

“You really do go wild for ghoulishness.” The ghoul sidled up to him to spoon him and share the pillow, and sleepily nuzzled into his hair with a playful snarl. “You cold?”

“I... I’m not...” ‘Choly pressed himself up to fit against Sticks, and tugged the robe tie even tighter. “I’m... not--”

“Not... what?”

“ _I’m not a man._ ”

“Could have fooled me.” The ghoul pulled the covers up over them both more thoroughly, and got even more comfortable holding ‘Choly. “Look, whatever you’re trying to tell me, I already knew. But it doesn’t make you any less the man you are.” He sighed dreamily, too comfortable for his own good. “I don’t mind the things about how I am that turn your crank. Just... stay out of my nose, though, maybe? Makes me gag a bit.”

“No... ted.” He stifled tears. He held Sticks’s arm and pressed his wrist to his lips. “You’re... you’re beautiful, Jacob.”

“I’ve... missed proximity like this... Never would have guessed laying with a man would be so _comforting_... I’m... glad you’re the one showing me that, Mindy.”

Maybe it was all right to be like this, and all that meant.

“I’m glad it’s with you, too.”


	18. Ethical Consumption (Ch51)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handies, hands, and handedness.
> 
> TWs: surveillance, addiction discussion.

Ghoul limbs wrapped around Melancholy. A smile bubbled up on his face as he pressed himself back against Sticks, who reciprocated in kind and pulled the hospital blanket up over both of them to spite the clammy, gauzy chill of twilight.

“Do we have to get up,” ‘Choly mumbled.

“I’m not averse to staying... just like this... as long as time allows.” Sticks sighed, not quite lucid. “I like this dream.”

“I’m glad it’s not one.”

Just as ‘Choly began to drift off again, the alarm bleated on his Pip-Boy on the nightstand. The two of them grunted. Sticks rolled over to reach for the device, but ‘Choly had already stood and circled the bed to retrieve it. The room returned to quiet as he held the disarmed Pip-Boy, undecided at first whether to put it back on. For a moment, the regret throttled him that he’d left it off the whole night. Had it been a military-issue Pip-Boy, the negligence in the company of non-military personnel would have been unforgivable. He swallowed despite a dry mouth, and put it back on. Surely, the ghoul hadn’t done anything to it in the night, or looked through its data. Sticks looked up at him with bated attentiveness from where he still lay, putting his left hand back on. Impatiently, ‘Choly tossed the covers off him and retied his robe. 'Choly didn’t even wait for him to get any clothes before ushering the two of them downstairs.

The rich, petrichoresque aroma of fresh coffee drifted up the stairwell. ‘Choly wondered whether Angel had been distancing itself on purpose, but said nothing seeing the Mister Handy already busied itself downstairs.

Sticks boiled some water in order to reconstitute some dried noodles he’d brought. As it steeped, he gave ‘Choly a glance in offering to share, but the chemist glanced dully over the edge of his Billerica Golf Course mug with the exhaustion of the impending day already weighing on him. The ghoul fetched a Melancholia from the fridge and set it on the table, then finished preparing his breakfast, stirring in some jerky shreds and a fistful of something ‘Choly only speculated might be trail mix or dried vegetables. Whatever Sticks had added made the entire kitchen smell savory. Pouring himself a teacup of coffee, he sat at the table with it and ate straight from his pan with a pair of metal chopsticks.

After a few sips of the minty meal replacement drink, which they’d re-bottled the night before, ‘Choly’s face screwed up a bit. He switched to the hot black coffee, only to sour and return to the Melancholia.

“Not so great second day?”

“More that there’s a dozen reasons mint mouthwash is probably the worst flavor to make it with.” He rubbed his tongue on the roof of his mouth a bit. “Haven’t had a chilled one since... before. ...Maybe chocolate would at least bridge the flavor with the coffee.”

“Would it be dangerous to figure out how to make that stuff chocolate flavored?” He swallowed and grinned at the chemist. “Or _coffee_ flavored?”

‘Choly’s chuckle faded as he watched Sticks eat.

“...Forgive me if it’s coarse of me to ask, but you’re... eating with the left hand? Are you. _Were_ you left handed? I barely have the dexterity for chopsticks with my good hand, and yet-- No, forget I said anything.”

The ghoul’s raised-brow gaze sank into his meal for a few bites, while he took the observation as a compliment on his dexterity.

“It’s something the General threw together. Mix of stuff from the RobCo building. I think the tech’s called something like... Nostradamus?”

‘Choly’s face drooped in recognition, and watched more intently.

“She reverse-engineered the Nostrus glove to fashion intuitive prosthesis.” He finished off the Melancholia, so he could focus on his coffee. “I understand now, why you said it doesn’t fake sensory input. It’s basically a glorified typewriter.”

“Nah, doesn’t even typewrite. It’s got precision, but that’s about it.”

It struck him, that Sticks leaving his glove on the nightstand likely held an even greater severity than his leaving his Pip-Boy beside it, and he soured over the fact he’d distrusted the ghoul for even a moment.

“...You got it from Olivia. I can’t tell whether that must have cost a fortune.”

“Cost more than it did to lose the hand in the first place, that’s for sure.”

Angel included itself finally, pretending to scrutinize the state of the cabinetry before taking its time washing the blender pitcher and measuring cups that had been left in the sink.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I would ask if you slept well, but we all know neither of you were asleep for some time. I see you’ve succeeded in a batch of Melancholia, Mister Carey. I trust that you didn’t add any... _Med-X_ to the recipe as you promised, mm?”

He jolted upright, choking on his coffee. Angel offered him the dish rag to wipe his nose and chin, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort of the temperature of the beverage. Sticks had scooted back away from the table to hold the pan in his lap with his left hand to finish eating with his right, watching wide-eyed from a distance.

“I... I don’t think I should have to announce every single time I use a chem,” the chemist asserted, shaking. “Sticks was acting in my best interest, just as much as you do. He knew how much pain I was in yesterday, and he offered me the Med-X dose. One. Dose. Which went into me directly, not my food stock.”

Once it could retrieve the dish rag, it set the inverted pitcher on it spread out on the counter.

“Well, you could have declined the offer.”

“--Now you see here.” Sticks shoved his mostly-broth pan onto the table to glare meaningfully at the robot. “Would _you_ turn down something that makes it easier to function?”

“You’re asking about a chem, not a replacement part or upgrade! Pretending there’s nothing wrong can only stand to make a problem worse!!” Exasperated, Angel started toward the back patio before a full argument could break out. Before it shut the door behind itself, it tearfully cried out, “You promised me you’d make use of Rad-X the next time, Sir!”

The pair finished their food and drink in lethargic, sullen silence.

‘Choly tossed his mug into the sink.

“Unlike you, I’ll have to take my shower in the barracks. If you could, go ahead and get dressed, so you can follow Angel and me over.”

“Are you mad at me?” Sticks asked while he finished rinsing out his pan to set it beside the pitcher.

“I’m mad at myself.”

“...For?”

“Making promises I knew I couldn’t keep.” He took to the first step, and motioned his head at Sticks. “It’s no matter. Get on with it. Get dressed so I can get dressed. So we can go check on Liv.”

Upstairs, Sticks was putting back on his bowling ensemble, and he asked him, “How did Angel know? What you had and hadn’t been putting in your body? ...Who you’d been putting in your body?”

Flushing in the face, ‘Choly didn’t look to him, gathering together his uniform, combat boots, clean undergarments, binding, and other effects he’d require to dress fresh out of the shower.

“In case you couldn’t tell from all the different colored parts it’s made of now, I upgraded Angel before we came to Lowell. Replaced parts that had gotten damaged from raider attacks. It’s got the sensory array of a Mister Gutsy now, as well as the minigun of one.” He snorted, shaking his head of his mentality. “I thought if I watched what I said aloud-- It was a mistake to give a DIA Handy a sensory update. Once a bug, always a bug.”

“It’s coming from a place of concern and care.” Sticks put his right hand on ‘Choly’s shoulder. “And you were, too. Upgrading it and repairing it like that. I don’t think it’s just hurt that it thinks you went back on some promises. I think it’s getting jealous I’m back in your life, ‘Choly.”

“If the three of us could live together in peace in 2077, the three of us can make peace in 2284.”

Angel carried ‘Choly’s things and accepted his Pip-Boy once he disrobed. It supervised Sticks all the while, who sat in the changing room of the showers poorly hiding a pout that he had to get stuck alone with the robot. ‘Choly got lost in the steam and his head space, recalling truthfully that laying with Sticks had in fact irradiated him. He’d meant it when he’d promised that he’d try the Melancholia without painkillers, but he could tell he hadn’t even come close to a genuine promise that he’d do what he could to prevent his own radiation poisoning. By the time he turned the water off, he stood dumb overhearing that Angel and Sticks were yelling--and that neither cared whether ‘Choly could overhear it.

“--How could you give him a painkiller like that!” Angel spat. “He’s a lifelong history of opioid addiction! He’s _clean_ right now, Mister Hawthorne. You will _not_ ruin that for him!”

“He’s a grown man, Mister _Handy_. You forcing him to abstain from all chems means you’re keeping him from learning how to make that choice himself. Don’t you trust him? D--”

“--I don’t trust _you_.”

Cut off, the ghoul snarled.

“Don’t you trust _him_ to make his own choices! And you don’t seem to understand the scope of pain he experiences! In just the past three days, I have seen how bad off he is from what Vault-Tec did to him. Not just physically, but _emotionally_. He deserves some respite from that pain, even if it’s implausible to turn it off completely. Or did General Atomics not program you with any compassion!”

The Handy sputtered, incredulous.

“Of course he has free will! We have an arrangement!” It brought ‘Choly his towel and robe, continuing to speak to Sticks from the showers. Excluded from an argument about him, ‘Choly frowned and dried his hair. “I have all the chems in my storage. If Mister Carey needs a chem, he can ask me to dispense it! I’m not stopping him from doing a thing. I’ve simply required that it be a conscious choice on his part if he seeks chemical alterations.”

“--And you don’t think forcing a request for every dose shames someone in constant pain for asking for pain relief!?”

“Get... out, you two,” ‘Choly sneered, snatching his things from the robot and stamping a bare wet foot at them both. “Out! Get out...! Let me dress!!”

They complied.

The only sound for a while was the dripping shower head. He sat in clean briefs, and dropped the robe and towel to work himself into the surgical corset. Despite how much of it he’d overheard, he couldn’t make his mind up whether either of them had been wrong _or_ right. The canvas clung to his body in a way that prevented facility of stringing into it, and he sniveled feeling like having two companions at odds with one another had divorced both of them from him. It really came down to him causing trouble, didn’t it?

“Can I... help you with that?” Sticks knocked at the open doorway, but didn’t enter. “Not that I don’t think you could do it yourself, but I imagine it’s much easier with two sets of hands.”

‘Choly picked up his long face and sat up from lacing up his ankle braces over his socks, the corset still hanging loose off his shoulders.

“--I.” He punctuated a breath, noticing the ghoul had returned inside independent of the robot. “I haven’t had somebody help me with it before.”

“Can I--”

“--Yeah. Yeah, sorry.”

“All good.”

The ghoul slipped behind ‘Choly and ran his bare fingers over the laces of the corset, to scrutinize its construction. At first ‘Choly could only imagine the offer had been made out of self-indulgence, but he permitted it regardless. Then Sticks began a precise and attentive adjustment one pair of eyelets at a time, from the top and bottom inward, cementing some manner of altruism in ‘Choly’s mind. They exchanged only murmurs of affirmation or doubt as to proper fit, and before ‘Choly knew it Sticks had him strung into it like it came second nature to the ghoul. ‘Choly felt his front, and down his sides, brows raised at the perceived difference it had made to have someone else do it for him. He couldn’t tell if it really did fit better adjusted by someone else, or if it just felt that way on account of whom had helped him.

Before he could thank him, Sticks had already stepped back outside to wait.

He dressed in uniform, but put his hair in a messy french twist so that a good front third of it hung loose. If asked, he’d say it was so it would dry faster, but he’d really done it so the vague curls could frame his heart-shaped face.


	19. Forging (Ch52)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deenwood's mirrors are just broken enough.
> 
> TWs: discussion of chemical weapon artillery, hair clippers, vague sense of identity politic.

“Now then,” Angel remarked as ‘Choly stepped out of the enlisted barracks’ baths. “We can all collectively agree to be civil, can’t we?”

“I don’t think either you nor I can be civil, all things considered,” ‘Choly quipped as he hopped up on the Handy’s foot pegs for a ride across the compound grounds, already dreading what could come next. “Today, I’m in uniform and ready to get tasks taken care of. We’ll be agreeable. _Sticks_ can be civil.”

A Gutsy rushed up to give directions.

“Not entirely correct, to consider Sticks a civilian, Captain Carey. Come with me. The General is in Wing IV of the R&D.”

Sticks noticed both the army green robot’s verbiage and the chemist’s flinch as to where they headed next, and he straightened to stuff his hands in his khaki pockets to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything at all.

The Gutsy, G-5, led them to the smallest but most fortified of the three standing warehouse-like buildings on the property. In previous visits this week, Deenwood’s robotics had escorted ‘Choly here to Olivia’s office, but today, he was taken past encrypted pneumatic doors to the high-security laboratory floor. It was the most minor of consolation to ‘Choly, that this was not the floor where he and his colleagues had developed the Psycho which they perfected through exacting trial and error--but it was, instead, an area which required even higher clearance, and none of the equipment here was familiar.

Under the mixture of fluorescent and incandescent lighting, ‘Choly nearly didn’t recognize the back of Olivia’s head at the terminal where she sat, already hard at work supervising the computer-assisted manufacturing process. She heard the doors open and shut, and footsteps and flames approach, but she didn’t look up, only waving a hand at the Gutsy to dismiss it.

“Thank you, Green Five.”

“At your beck, Madam General.”

“I’m sorry to say you’re ahead of me. The synthesis process is still yet incomplete. When I said to give me a day, I meant twenty-four hours or so.” After a moment poring over figures, she saved the programming variables and spun about face on the swivel stool to clap her hands with a firm smile for her company. “Still, though, we can discuss the game plan while we wait.”

“A hundred units of X-Cell-Root,” ‘Choly parroted dully, dismounting Angel to look around. “This is the wing where they created X-Cell, isn’t it.”

“There were thirteen wings during your last tenure on base, for ten branches of research. Most of them are no longer in use. Right now, you’re currently standing in the only known laboratory on the Eastern Coast with both the precursor and formula for Day Tripper.”

“I’m sure you spend a lot of time in this room, then,” the chemist remarked a little too sharply.

Sticks snorted with a dumb smile, and shook his head at him.

“I’m sure I do.” A strange knowing glint filled her dark eyes. “The raw materials I needed for one of the shells we’re to use against the Rust Devils are stored, and best processed, here.”

“I’m going to pretend you’re pulling at least a few punches,” Sticks quipped, no longer of any humor. “Mixed artillery, I’m guessing?”

“Artillery? What are you--” ‘Choly shut up abruptly, recalling how she’d mentioned the day before that MKExcell had begun as a Chem Corps study, only to shift to a Pharm Corps study. “You’re planning on using the Day Tripper ‘Root’ on the Devils.”

“Quick on the draw.” Olivia grinned, appreciating the fact ‘Choly could keep up. “You’ve got it backwards, though. Klutz was engineered from Day Tripper. We researched both X-Cell’s pharmaceutical refinement as well as its weaponization, remember. Once under the influence of the gas grenade, the affected party is far more readily plied. Provided key frequencies, someone affected by Klutz also exhibits a tendency to spontaneously disrobe. Klutz shells are shaped such that they...” she snickered at the thought of it, pantomiming the trajectory, “whistle one such pitch.”

“They’re notorious for wearing heavy armor gutted from robotics,” Sticks nodded, appreciating the disarmament tactic. “Not questioning the use of the Klutz... but you still haven’t said whether it was only Klutz.”

“The game plan, Sticks. Are you going to let me speak yet?” When he crossed his arms and watched expectantly, she slouched back on the stool and lit a cigarette. “The Furriers’ greatest skill set is their stamina hunting and their ability to set traps. Provided proper firearms, they’re exceptional snipers, but my Eyebots that survey Lowell and Chelmsford estimate three hundred raiders in Back Central, and at least another hundred in RobCo Towers. Deenwood has less than a hundred robots at her employ, and the Furriers don’t even have a hundred heads. Considering the Devils--”

“I dunno,” ‘Choly mumbled under his breath, “one of them might have a hundred heads.”

Olivia glowered at him for acting as her peanut gallery. He looked over to Sticks, who was straining not to die laughing.

“... _Considering the Devils have their own handcrafted robotics_ ,” she continued, through her teeth, “much of which is crafted from robotics they have captured and stolen from Deenwood, we _must_ have the element of surprise on our side. Or we _will_ lose.” She stood, to pace with her smoke. “That said, I plan for the Furriers to shepherd the Back Central Devils into one central location to maximize the efficiency of the gas grenades. Once the Furriers utilize the indicated formation to pin the Devils in position, my Sentry Bots will fire Rad-I-Canned shells. We’ll do the same with RobCo Towers once we’ve secured Back Central.”

"Rad-I-Canned!” Sticks blurted out. Incredulity flung his fists to his sides and his face into an exasperated scowl. “You’ve only used that once before, to my knowledge! I know you could cut the conflict tension with a knife here, but do you really take this for some Gordian knot! Surely we can achieve this with less.”

She took a long hit off her cigarette, and she stopped and turned to make unblinking eye contact with Sticks while she exhaled all the smoke his way, through her nasal gap.

“Wars have been started over less.”

‘Choly finally noticed where the Assaultron Helen had been in waiting all this time, by the door where they’d entered, and couldn’t stop staring at her. With a coughing fit, he broke the uncomfortable silence with his guts full of moths.

“About making me colonel... Green Five still called me captain earlier. You did mean it, that you wanted to make it official, right? _Colonel_ Carey?”

Getting caught in her misdirection, she softened in place and resumed pacing. Sticks appreciated the shift in subject.

“Oh, I just didn’t consider it all that time sensitive. Figured we could get into all that after this debacle’s through with. But, if you insist, it probably wouldn’t hurt to look the part of the colonel in charge of the Voire troop.” The ghoul general strolled over to the nearest standing ashtray, took one more hit off her smoke, and extinguished it in the sand. “Go get your prescription updated. Those godawful glasses aren’t regulation issue. And you’re going to have to get a haircut, if you plan on wearing the officers’ martial dress uniform, you know.”

She made a buzzing motion with one fist at her own nape in a mild jeer, then glanced to her steel-tone Pip-Boy to flick a series of dial settings. ‘Choly touched the temple of his glasses with a frown, then felt of the back of his head with anxiousness. Green Five reappeared while he stressed, and he straightened when he noticed he was visibly losing his cool over a handful of superficial alterations. She held out an upturned hand expectantly.

“Before you get out of my hair for a few hours, fork over your nameplate and ribbon rack. I’ll update the RFID data while you get cleaned up, so that the base responds to your... _new rank_. I’ll have your designations, and new uniform, delivered to your rowhouse.”

“Leave the supervision of Mister Hawthorne to me, Miss Francis,” Angel offered helpfully as its owner complied. “I’ve already been his shadow this morning, whether he likes it or not.”

Olivia picked her eyes up before her head, glancing first to Angel, then to Sticks. Her brow piqued as her lips furrowed in thought, and she paced some more while Sticks sweated.

“You know, I could fix that. Reboot Angel’s imprint matrix. Reintroduce yourselves to its fixed variables. It would have to relearn who you both are, of course, but the second time it gets acquainted would go much faster since it’s already learned both of your personalities.”

‘Choly gawked between them all in a stupor over what was being proposed. Sticks nearly cut through the pause to agree on ‘Choly’s behalf, but ‘Choly cut him off.

“--I don’t want to wipe Angel’s memory of me.” He hemmed, hating where this was going. “I, I’ll think about it. Let’s get going, Green Five.”

“We’ll come with you,” Sticks blurted out, drawing Angel along as he stayed twenty paces behind ‘Choly.

“I’ll send for you all when I’m done with the Furriers’ chem cache,” Olivia called after them fake-sweetly. “Don’t bother me again until then.”

“Was that a gesture or a threat, to offer that... _service_ ,” ‘Choly asked with a flat distress, once they were no longer in her presence.

“Probably both, knowing her,” Sticks replied, just as terse. “Angel, you don’t have any arrangements with _me_. Could _I_ bum a smoke and light off you?”

“Certainly,” it provided without skipping a beat. It also gave ‘Choly his cane, which he appreciated. “Do you need one as well, Mister Carey?”

“Why the fuck not,” he resigned, nearly concussed by being jerked around by so many different individuals. The leathery taste did little to soothe his nerves, or his disorientation, but he persisted.

Once ‘Choly stepped inside the storage hangar, and the Quartermasters’ Wing, Green Five directed him to the left hall. Angel and Sticks remained outside.

“The General has instructed that you begin with Optometry. As you’ll recall, the barber is at the other end of the hall once you’re done.”

“Why hello!” the Miss Nanny inside the office greeted in a soothing, effeminate affect. Green Five vanished again on its way, trading off ‘Choly’s care to the white robot. “It’s been so long since I had someone to examine! Let us get started with the phoropter, shall we?”

‘Choly took the ashtray from the waiting area with him, and puffed at his cigarette intermittently throughout the examination. The Handy, nicknamed Lunette, did not object provided that ‘Choly kept it out of the way and kept the ashes tidy. With a flurry of numerical annotations and shuffled lens metrics, Lunette determined his prescription. It felt like the Nanny leaned nearer when its optical lenses craned into his face to inspect him, and he sat back in the high-back exam chair, cradling the ashtray close to his chest with a frown.

“Our diagnostics equipment indicates that your cataracts are severe enough to require surgical correction. The cause of these is unknown, however, and it seems to chiefly impact your light sensitivity rather than the acuity of your vision. We would have to refer you to an ophthalmologist to receive corrective surgery, but it’s my understanding that it’s neither necessary nor afforded at present. I can script you medical permission to wear a visor or other such brimmed head gear on duty, if you like, Sir.”

He nodded tersely, and put his round frames back on. Lunette eased off the personal space intrusion, to retrieve a catalogue and provide it. To skim through it, he put out his cigarette and set the ashtray aside.

“Our inventory hasn’t been updated in around two hundred years, I’m afraid,” it apologized. “The General hasn’t revised dress code to forbid any of them, at least. Hopefully there’s still something available to your liking.”

The booklet fell open in his lap when he found the crescent-shaped acetate frames were still listed. He pointed at them, shakily, and Lunette snatched up the catalogue to see the model number he’d indicated.

“Ah yes! My records indicate you ordered these 218 years ago. Gravitating towards the familiar! We’ve still got several. Shall I fill your prescription with these then?”

“I’d like that very much, Lunette. Thank you.”

“As you like! Off you go, then. I’ll bring them down the hall to you once I’ve got the lenses cut. Shouldn’t be but fifteen minutes or so.”

He caned his way down to the barber’s office, to sit in the chair. A Mister Handy with a cockney accent approached him.

“What’ll it be, Gov?”

“I’m in a bit of a predicament, Burns. I’m told I... have to get a cut appropriate for the officer’s martial dress uniform. But between you and me? I don’t want to cut off my hair.”

“I hear you. Remember you objected to a crew cut in 2066, too. Martial uniform, though.” It gave him a thoughtful whistle. “‘Bout to get a might bit hairy, I imagine.”

The pun made him flinch, and the Handy guffawed.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Oh, say no more. Leave it to ol’ Burns. I’ve got just the thing for ya. It’ll take a Love guide to get it trim proper 'nough for regulation, but you’ve got the Burns guarantee you’ll appreciate the results.” Its tendril attachments whirled to comb, snips, and an electric razor. “Let me take a little off the bottom ‘ere, mark the state a yer Barnet off the list of things you could possibly be worryin’ about.”

He swallowed, and sat up straight as Burns fetched the barber’s cape.

“I trust you.”

“Attaboy!”

Given the indication to begin, the Handy removed ‘Choly’s glasses. Then it unpinned his hair and brushed it out, and it proceeded to pin back sections to isolate the patch from his nape to just above his ears. He tried to watch, but couldn’t really see in the cracked mirror, with or without his eyesight. The sensation of the clippers jolted down his spine and he shivered, barely keeping still enough for Burns to steady the attachment along his scalp. It touched up the hair in front of both ears, then with scissors trimmed his split ends as well. Once done snipping away, the Handy swiveled the chair one-eighty to dip the back to the counter at the wall. It gave him a quick rinse and blow dry, and propped him back up to use fresh bobby pins to return his hair to a taut, slick french twist, positioned slightly higher up on his head than before.

By the time Burns was done with him, Lunette entered.

“Burns, I’ve got Colonel Carey’s prescription ready,” the Nanny said.

“Ah, yes! Let’s have ‘em. Perfect timin’. He’ll get to see how it matches up with the ‘do we’ve done him up wif.” As he took the glasses gratefully from Lunette, Burns turned the chair to his right, to face the wall where a full length mirror remained in tact. “How’s about it, Gov?”

To have heard the Nanny say _Colonel_ , though, he thought to himself. Olivia must have just gotten finished with his designation updates. He shivered, and put on his new glasses. He let out a low whistle, his face long as he turned his head to run a hand over his shaven nape. He could see. Truly _see_.

“Doesn’t feel so bad, after all,” he appreciated quietly, both awing and dreading the context which such a cut came requisite. He repeated flatly, “The colonel of the Voire troop. Huh.”

“Just one step left before you’re off to your camp, Colonel,” Burns remarked, watching him appreciating the trim. “Gen says Green Seven’s en route to your place as we speak. Better get goin’.”

“Oh, tell me they’re to your liking,” Lunette begged.

“It’s perfect,” he ingratiated, his head ringing when he saw the hair Burns now swept up into a dustpan. He started off toward the front door of the hangar, trying not to think about it too hard. “Thank you, both of you.”

 _Where’s your loyalty lie, Carey? Do you even have to be Carey anymore? Does Carey even exist now? Should I have asked her to program my nameplate to truly_ be _Melancholy? To properly_ be _Melano Kara? _Is becoming Melancholy a step forward?_ Would becoming Kara again be a step backward?_

He choked down the urge to ask Angel for a Mentat, or another cigarette, only to open the door to find neither the Handy nor his ghoul had waited up for him. He snarled and hobbled along back to the rowhouse, knowing G-7 would without question beat him home.


	20. Glass Ghosts (Ch53)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Or maybe not broken enough.
> 
> TW: mental snap, description of the sources of disfigurement and injuries.

By the time ‘Choly had crossed the base grounds, G-7 had likely stood idle outside his rowhouse for upwards of half an hour. His new uniform hung gingerly in one of its tendril pincers, in two garment bags. Wheezing hard, he snatched it from the Mister Gutsy and thanked it with a pat on its tendril, then slouched up the porch stairs. Before he even got on the porch, the front door flew open, and Angel came out to try to help him inside.

“Oh, dear, Mister Carey, do forgive me--” He swatted the air angrily at it. “Mister Hawthorne refused to wait a moment longer, and I promised both you and Miss Francis that I wouldn’t leave him alone--”

“ _JACOB!_ ” Snarling, he mounted the stairs, his head running hot. “What the FUCK was so important that you couldn’t wait on me fifteen GODDAMN minutes! Angel is my fucking _WHEELCHAIR_ \--”

Standing stupid in the doorway to his bedroom, ‘Choly stopped in his tracks. Dressed again in his longshoreman’s garb, Sticks sat on the end of the bed with the Vault 111 jumpsuit slung across his lap. The ghoul’s face was all screwed up in what could either have been a smile or a grimace. He sniveled, not looking up to ‘Choly.

“What kind of sick fucking joke is this?” Sticks’s voice cracked, rough enough to nearly sound underwater. Transfixed on the blood stains, his fingers tangled up in the stab hole in the front of the otherwise royal blue bodysuit. “I was right. You are haunting my stupid ass.”

‘Choly hung up the garment bags in the open closet and sat beside him to catch his breath. Unsure what to say, he sat wheezing for some time.

“Jesus Christ,” Sticks continued at a hush with a broken pitch bottomless glare, the grimace falling slack. “Those glasses. If it’s 2077 all over again, why am I still like this--?”

“Hey. Hey, stay with me.” ‘Choly tried to put a hand on Sticks’s, but the ghoul withdrew it and let his attention knot back up in the vault suit. “I got attacked by bloodbugs on the way up Route 3. One of them got me, just under the collarbone. Would have got me through the heart, if it hadn’t been for the surgical corset. If Angel hadn’t had its Nanny tendril and programming, it wouldn’t have been able to administer the Stimpaks it did. I-- You think I got shot in the chest, don’t you?” A weak, defeated laugh escaped him. He loosed his necktie and began to unbutton his dress shirt. “I can show you the scar it left. And I know Angel would hate to produce it, but I did keep the thing’s proboscis. A sort of trophy. Angel! Bring the bloodbug proboscis, will you?”

When Sticks was uninterested in entertaining the spectacle of ‘Choly’s scars, 'Choly got up from the bed and went into the open closet to change into his new uniform. He discarded the service uniform in the floor and put his Pip-Boy atop the chest of drawers, and stood there in his undershirt and underwear by the time Angel approached with the requested object. At first the robot offered it to its owner, but he urged it to hand the foot-long hollow structure to the ghoul instead. It also offered the deathclaw’s paw with tacit displeasure.

“Please tell me we’re not taking these with us,” it complained. “You really must rethink what you keep from the awful beasts that attack you.”

“How-- a _deathclaw_!” The desiccating clump of mostly bone fell in the floor rather into Sticks’s lap. He brandished the proboscis at him like a knife from where he sat. “No. No, there’s no way you’re standing in front of me alive.”

‘Choly was immune to the gesture, too absorbed in getting dressed again.

“You’re convinced I’m a ghost. Is that it? Maybe I am. It would explain a lot.”

‘Choly leaned nearer his reflection in the broken full-length mirror as he fastened the brass snaps of the high-collar charcoal shirt’s wide asymmetrical strapped placket. He adjusted how the piped edge sat around his neck. Already affixed was the colonel’s eagle. He straightened to scrutinize his transformation progress, and could only continue to wonder whether accepting the promotion was a mistake. Leaning against the frame of the closet door to steady himself, the matching slacks came next. He tucked in his shirt, then argued with his ammo case harness to get the belt through the loops and the suspenders in place. He dragged his combat boots over to the bed to sit and lace them up.

“I guess I’m just struggling with the reality,” Sticks admitted quietly, “that despite everything that’s happened to you, you could possibly still be alive. It’s my understanding that the majority of people who got into the vaults didn’t usually last more than a few years, for the variety of evil shit Vault-Tec did. Forgive me for having such a hard time imagining that you survived two _centuries_ in one, and have somehow managed to keep from getting killed by the Commonwealth ever since, having to crash course it all first hand.”

“Didn’t do it alone.” He pointed at Angel, warming to a grin, and it brought him his Pip-Boy. He folded up his right sleeve and put it back on. “I had to repair Angel for a lot of reasons, you know. Damn if it’s not foolhardy as all abandon, though! You know raiders chopped off its one laser attachment, and even though it only had its saw and pincer, it _still_ ran headlong toward that deathclaw to keep it from ripping up the settlers that the raiders had been trying to kill!”

“If I hadn’t done something, Mister Garvey would have had to contend with the monstrosity all on his own,” Angel stated humbly. “The power armor could have only done him so much good against something so large and so angry!”

“Settlers?” Sticks mumbled after a good moment, spacing out. “There’s settlers in Lexington? They’re not raiders?”

“One of them still fancies himself a Minuteman, if that means anything to you of their substance.” When the ghoul couldn’t help a bittersweet smile, ‘Choly chuckled and patted his knee. “All that happened in Concord, actually-- and they’re living in Sanctuary now, believe it or not!”

Any good humor fell right back out of the ghoul.

"You’re kidding me.”

“Serious. I told them the vault isn’t safe--and it’s not--but they’re--” ‘Choly’s mood soured in kind, himself haunted. “The old woman’s living in Jahani’s house. Jh-- Hhha--” He squinted tight, the words difficult as he tried to divorce his sense of self from what he was now wearing. “Why did the Gutsy earlier insist you’re not a civilian? Liv doesn’t seem especially against disclosing high-ranking military intel in front of you.”

“She hasn’t said anything around me I haven’t heard before,” the ghoul shrugged, unsure how to navigate the ghost seeming more distraught than he was. “And Deenwood doesn’t consider me a civilian because it still thinks of the Furriers as off-base reserve troops. And it considers me a Furrier. And a defector, too, I guess, if we’re being honest.”

Still in the fumes of recalling his ties to Jahani, ‘Choly got up from the bed to retrieve his remembrance poppies from the top of the chest of drawers in his closet, and leaned in the door frame to thread them onto the shirt he had on. He watched Sticks expectantly, hoping for elaboration. Sticks scrunched up his mouth to one side and decided to fold up the vault suit like he’d found it.

“I was the reason for the General’s last major meltdown. Fifty years ago, I nicked a Mark V Pip-Boy from the RobCo Towers. Thought if I had sophisticated enough tech, even I could hack my way on base. But I’m sure you remember that I am and always have been rubbish with computers. She caught onto me immediately. She hit Voire with a metric fuckton of Rad-I-Canned, and had me hunted down so she could throw me in a cell on base. Had my hand ripped off me, and she gutted my Pip-Boy and turned it into... this, as a way of guaranteeing that I couldn’t try to use it against her again.” He made a face at his glove prosthesis, and dropped his hands into his lap. “Still not totally sure how I managed to convince her not to experiment on me anymore than she did. But no, ‘Choly. I swear I wasn’t going through your shit. I had to come back here, and get Angel to start packing up so you wouldn’t lose anything important if she doesn’t let us back on base, and I was in here when it started packing up your closet, and--”

“Why don’t you think she’ll let us back on base?”

“--Because _someone_ gave away the fact you and I knew each other prewar.” He couldn’t contain a glare toward Angel, who flinched in remorse. “I guarantee she suspects some kind of foul play. The fact she’s following through with your requests at all, as closely and correctly as she has, is suspect to say the least. Either she’s that desperate to keep you doing exactly what she wants you to do, or there’s something really, _really_ wrong.” As ‘Choly fished the knee length white overcoat from the other garment bag and put it on, Sticks motioned for Angel to come back in the room from where it had withdrawn to the hall. “Angel, those are legit insignia things, right? You can scan ‘em and tell he’s Alan Carey? A colonel...?” He shuddered, haunted afresh. “Colonel. Good god almighty it just all comes so natural to you, doesn’t it.”

“Oh, yes, of course they’re genuine,” Angel reported, its ocular lenses combing over the nameplate, ribbon rack, and other various brass and silver insignias which all indicated his rank, branch, and tenure. “Though, I’m not certain as to the significance of this addition to your ribbon rack.”

‘Choly withdrew into the closet to conceal a snivel in adjusting his broad collar and fastening the buckling utility belt of the coat about his waist. It wasn’t that he was wearing a uniform--this was _his uniform_. He’d only had one commanding function during his last active duty, directing the administration and observation of the enlisted troops upon which Deenwood’s military chemists had experimented. But he wasn’t about to admit in the moment that his rank had never put him on the battlefield, and risk planting doubt in his ability to lead where he would need to.

“Please, do forgive me, gentlemen,” the robot continued, feeling like ‘Choly had been stewing in silence. “I don’t mean anything by it, that I refer to you as I was introduced to you. My programming was scripted before it was commonplace for people to change their last names, or omit using them altogether. I know it’s not just you, Mister Hawthorne, who’s nettled by it. Mister Carey can’t stand it either. Maybe it would be for the best, to permit Miss Francis to reset my imprint matrix.”

“She’s not touching your goddamn grey matter,” ‘Choly snapped, rolling his coat cuff as he had his shirt, and buttoning the first three covered buttons of its front. He slipped on the reinforced black leather gloves from its side pockets, and let out an agonized snarl as he punched out the closet mirror. Glass scattered all over the balding carpet. Breathing ragged, he turned in full posture to glare at Sticks. “And who do you think you are, to suppose what comes naturally to me?”

The ghoul shrank on the bed, unable to form a coherent response to the chemist’s apparent derangement. A knock came at the front door, and Angel excused itself to check on it.

“Was it a bad idea to encourage you into this?”

‘Choly’s head fell askew as his arms crossed his chest, incredulous.

“Too late to hesitate, don’t you think?”

“Miss Olivia is ready for us,” Angel reported, returning to the room. Its tendrils curled against its spherical body, recognizing the tension. “Let’s finish gathering the last of things so we can head out, shall we?”

“A _fantastic_ idea,” ‘Choly agreed a little too sharply, despising the likelihood that, despite the duress and consequence of his transformation, today very will might be the last he’d ever step foot on the Deenwood Compound premises.


	21. Order of Magnitudes (Ch54)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving toasts, and getting toasted.
> 
> TWs: Drugging, lascivious behavior, heavy inebriation, surveillance.

Outside the rowhouse, ‘Choly mounted Angel, but between the rigidity of his orthotics and the weight of the uniform fabric, he struggled to sustain the jockey-esque crouch he had used to ride the Mister Handy. He knew he’d need to modify they way he rode Angel in order to be _able_ to ride it.

“We’re visiting the storage hangar before we go see Olivia.”

A Mister Gutsy intercepted them before they got to the door.

“State your intent,” Green-One barked. “This is not the destination that’s been requested of you.”

“We wanted to stock up before we left,” ‘Choly began, dismounting with some difficulty. Angel handed him his cane, which he took appreciatively. “Do you... happen to have any straps? I’d take a fistful of uniform belts, if that’s all you’ve got.”

Sticks had decided, after the argument at the rowhouse, that he’d keep his mouth shut for the rest of their time on base, if he could help it. This decision, however, did not prevent a wide range of facial expressions. To the request, the ghoul cocked his head to one side.

“Request to enter the storage hangar has been confirmed,” the Gutsy replied after a minute of floating idly. “Come in, gentlemen.”

Although 'Choly disliked the awareness that she could communicate wirelessly with her network of robots, he, Angel, and Sticks all followed regardless. As the rolling hangar door peeled fully open, the Gutsy sped off into the uniforms section of the hangar, returning with its pincer full of various leather, fiber, and metal.

“I have five belts, as well as lengths of rope and chain, if they’d be of use, Colonel. I take it these are for better affixing what your Handy’s traveling with?”

“No, well, yes. It is carrying me. I’ll take all three things, if that’s all right. So I can figure out what will work best.” It handed over the things readily.

“Will you need any materiel stock?” it pressed gruffly. “I’m instructed to ask if it’s the real reason you came here first.”

“We came here for the belts,” Angel started before anyone else could reply, let alone explain why ‘Choly had wanted to come to the hangar first. “But if you could top me off on fusion cells, that would be truly divine, G-1.”

“Of course, Handy Angel.”

As G-1 worked, Sticks eyed the incendiary laser attachment customization Olivia had done for Angel.

“I could use a fresh tank for my flamer,” the ghoul requested, to deflect G-1 from its tinkering.

“We always try to keep another tank handy for the next time you pop on base, Sticks. Just have to leave the low tank with Deenwood.”

The ghoul shrugged explicitly, setting the flamer on the ground where G-1 could do as asked. Between the physical exertion and soup of charged emotions, ‘Choly’s head had begun swimming hours ago and had yet to stop.

“--And anything else for you, Colonel? Or will the ropes and such suffice?”

“--Oh!” He jerked back to reality with an unpalatable high-brow squint to shove down his mental state. “I don’t-- Actually. If you’ve got ammunition on hand for Sticks, you’ve likely got something for me as well. What variety of Syringer darts might you have?”

“Variety, we do not have, Sir, but we most certainly have darts for your Syringer. Pax darts don’t come free, mind you. They’re not standard military issue.”

The chemist nearly blurted out incredulity that the flamer was considered such, but he recalled the flamethrowing Assaultrons that chased him and Angel onto base. He dry swallowed and nodded as his face tightened, motioning to Angel to gain access to its storage compartment. He rifled in the false bottom, his wallet in many ways.

“You still accept the American dollar, don’t you? Silly of me to ask such an obvious question, but--”

“--Caps only,” it snipped, showing its first impatience with him.

He straightened in an instant with a thin smile and a cap-stuffed paper sack in hand. He disliked affirmation that caps were, in fact, a common currency these days.

“Say no more. How many for a case?”

“Three-hundred fifty, Sir.”

Any color left in his face washed out, but he grinned and simply handed over the bag without counting. In its pincer it scaled out the value of what it had been given. Its programming sounded off in the affirmative, and it left to the aisles and returned with the requested ammunition. The bag of caps had vanished in the shuffle.

“Here are three cases, plus two. You forfeited a little over a thousand, so that should be to your liking.”

‘Choly warmed to the exchange once the ammo cases fell into his hands. He gave G-1 a genuine smile, and nodded, then used the strap-snaps to affix them to the harness under his coat. The loose darts went into one of the incomplete cases already threaded onto his person.

G-1 escorted them to the R&D building personally, but vanished once they had entered. They came to Wing IV to find the heavily encrypted door already open, and Liv on a desk sprawled out atop a recumbent Helen. The ghoul general didn’t wholly unglue from her mate or tidy herself when she realized they had company, but she did sit up. Disheveled and incredibly drunk, she grinned broadly with heavy lids, patting to either side of her to suggest her guests take a seat.

“Oh, yes, please, thank you,” ‘Choly wheezed out without hesitation, slouching back in the office chair.

Sticks did not follow in kind, and crossed his arms to listen.

“So good to see you both again,” she murmured. “I hope your visit to the hangar was benefih-shul.”

“Very.” ‘Choly glanced to Sticks for a cue what more to say, but gleaned nothing.

“The case on that one desk over there is the X-Cell-Root Voire’s requested. There’s enough Furriers partaking in the conflict, that I didn’t have enough inhalers on hand. So! I used ampuoles instead.” She couldn’t keep one hand from wandering the inside of Helen’s thigh while she spoke. “It’s been mixed with adjuice-- advu-- adjuvant. Adjuvant! It’ll last longer. Ideally, long enough to carry over into shepherding maneuvers. My Eyebots scouted the past two days. The Back Central Rust Devils are holed up in the Robert House Charter School.”

The red-headed ghoul kissed the Assaultron on the breastplate, unable to resist another moment without her tongue against its chassis, then stood to retrieve the flare gun from atop the aforementioned enameled metal pharmaceutical case.

“‘Choly, you’re to instruct the Furriers to herd the Back Central Devils off school property and out onto the South Common. Sticks, you’re to use this flare gun so I know everything’s in position for my Sentries to fire. If you don’t wanna get hit, don’t fire unless you’re on the other side of the river.”

“We wouldn’t want to get hit with Rad-I-Canned, now, would we?” Seeing her so inebriated disenchanted ‘Choly, and he couldn’t read whether this was celebratory or as a consequence of stress.

She gave him a dopey smile as she sat again, in Helen’s lap.

“I forgot just how well you clean up, ‘Choly. It suits you.”

“I noticed you did more than edit the RFID in my ribbon rack... What exactly does this ribbon suggest?” He pointed to it.

“Oh, silly, that’s not a new ribbon. Your memory must not be too sharp. Certainly a new concept, though! Much like the addition of stars shows count of things other ribbons signify, I applied a star to your Meritorious Service bar. Consider it simple gratitude for having attended active duty two separate occasions. Though, it will be your first time having attended the battlefront proper, hm?”

She laughed, bubbling into pointed mocking as she sank comfortably across Helen and ran an arm behind the Assaultron’s neck.

“It didn’t have to be civil war for it to be bad and you know it. It was worse here than the front line every day of the Battle of Anchorage.” He gnashed his teeth at her, desperately shoving down anger as he eyed her. _Deeply unbecoming of a commanding officer._ “Have I missed the wedding?”

“Wedding?” Olivia glanced up to Helen, brow raised. “Don’t we seem already long-since wed?” Sweetly, she kissed the front side of Helen’s skull-plate.

“Olivia has a point,” Helen seconded. “Though my programming predates our meeting, I feel as though I were manufactured just to be hers.”

“And I’m yours,” Olivia beamed.

“And did she--” ‘Choly flinched in recognition, his brain processing what he was saying as he said it. His eyes widened as his volume escalated. “...Take your name or keep her own?” He waved a finger at his commanding officer indistinctly. “You... your offer to wipe Angel’s imprint matrix. That’s not the only way to achieve the same results and you know that.”

“Liquor’s even quicker,” she slurred through another bolt of cognac. She got up again, to pull two more glasses from the makeshift wet bar by the storage closet. “Gentlemen! Join me in a toas-scht.”

A Mister Handy that had idled in the far corner came to her, and with unspoken instruction it mulled the glasses and iced them. She then filled them with cognac. It stirred them and brought them to ‘Choly and Sticks. The ghoul broker’s tension didn’t go unnoticed, but he didn’t interrupt the ritual. ‘Choly didn’t object, either, but the offer of spirits certainly dulled his anger.

“To the success-sh of Deenwood! And to Voire, and their bi-shen-tennial alliance with the base! We’ll stamp out the Devils once and for all.”

Olivia raised her glass, and they followed suit. Once the glasses clinked together, Sticks wrenched ‘Choly’s from him and knocked it back in three swallows. ‘Choly staggered back. Olivia choked on her own drink in incredulity. ‘Choly immediately understood Sticks suspected it was drugged as usual.

“It’s just Daytripper, isn’t it!” The chemist nearly hissed in exasperation.

Furious and fed up, he tried to grab Sticks’s glass for himself. To get it away from ‘Choly, he drank that one too, and set down the glasses on the next nearest desk to catch his breath. When he turned around again, ‘Choly slapped him in the face, but he didn’t budge otherwise.

Olivia stared softly at ‘Choly, nearly sobered.

“Just what exactly do you think I do to the drinks I offer friends?”

“You think of _either_ of us as friends?” Sticks choked out, terse. “Could have fooled me.”

“Well, you two are sher-tainly more than friends,” she quipped, poorly concealing her hurt. “We don’t we all just lay bare some honesty while we’re at it?”

“It wasn’t Daytripper, was it.” ‘Choly began to melt apart mentally, finally forefront with what had been chewing steadily away at him since the argument at the rowhouse. “What did you do to him. All the years you had him here on base, what did you DO to him? It all comes so _easily_ for you, doesn’t it!?”

“He told you I experimented on him?” She laughed, elated again. “Who do you think helped me perfect the Daytripper formula? Most chems aren’t potent enough to work on ghouls. Nerves are deadened, chem receptors broken, by the mutations and keloidal scarring. There’s no short supply of ferals in Lowell, but they’re not viable to test _charisma_. I needed a shub-ject of like physiology. The day he could convince me to let him out was the day I knew I had it right.”

“...And the artificial hand?” he asked, carefully sitting back down.

“Serves him much better than the Pipboy did, if you ask me.”

The chemist slouched into a stupor, between how bad he ached, and how mentally frayed he grew. He failed to shove down trembling.

“So it really wasn’t Daytripper, then,” Sticks began at last. “And you were testing me. To see that I’d step in, and keep ‘Choly from taking whatever you gave him. If it was meant for me, it had to have been Klutz.”

“It was meant for you, and it was Magnetizer. I did expect you to drink it, but I didn’t expect you to drink both of them. Have fun overdosing, _Hawthorne_.” Ignoring the dread in Sticks’s eyes, she instead concerned herself with Angel. “You sure are traveling heavy, Angel, dear. Aren’t you bogged down with all that?”

“--I want to be as prepared as possible on site at Voire,” ‘Choly interjected dumbly. “I’d be remiss to have left something behind, only to end up needing it.”

Sticks disliked the transparency, but let it go unaddressed when Liv shrugged off any tension she could read on the chemist or the other ghoul.

“You always were one to be over-prepared. Mm mmh.” She clicked her tongue.

“We’re going to get going before we lose anymore daylight,” Sticks blurted out in pointed impatience.

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she pouted, slinking against her Assaultron again. “Blow it out for anyone but me, Sticks. The faster the two of us can regain our privacy, the better. Isn’t that right, Helen?”

“Affirmative, Tiger. Please leave.”

Angel grabbed the case and carried it behind itself as they exited. On their way off base, the trio all felt like Deenwood’s every eye was upon them, as though every robot set to ensure these potential defectors followed through with their announced intentions. Once off base, the whole perimeter came to life, complete with locking mechanisms, rotating warning lights, and a low bleating siren.

“ _Deenwood Compound will fully enter DEFCON One in sixty seconds_ ,” the robotic speakers announced. “ _After this time, approach by any entity, personnel or not, will be met with lethal force_.” It would repeat this announcement for the next minute, but the trio did not wait around to observe the final stages of lockdown.

Once they were two blocks away, ‘Choly stopped them so he could catch his breath.

“Guess you were right,” the chemist wheezed, sweating. He remembered the straps he’d shoved into Angel’s storage, and he requested them. Without them in the storage compartment, Angel could fit the Voire crate inside. “About Liv locking us out.”

“We’ll get back on base,” Sticks said, distracted. “We just have to do it on her terms now. What are those straps for, anyway?”

“I’m having trouble, crouching on top of Angel, in this uniform.” He continued speaking as he could, while he worked, in stuttered phrases. Angel helped him string the twist of straps through its car door handles. “I figured, some kind of reins might work better, than the handles. These reinforced gloves, make it easier, to grip things.” He hooked them all together into a loop, then mounted the foot pegs and steadied himself upright with this latest fixture to Angel’s body. “This works much better. Almost like jewelry for you, hm, Angel?”

“It’s for more than simple decoration, Mister Carey. Ha-ha!”

Silence followed as they made their way North through the residential Highlands. Sticks led them a different way than how ‘Choly and Angel had come the first time, but while they passed more housing this way, they encountered no ferals. They ended up again on the street that became Rourke Bridge, but before they got to the bridge itself, Sticks fumbled with the flamer and sniveled, only to snort-chuckle when he picked it back up with some difficulty. ‘Choly wasn’t sure whether to say anything, certain the chem had begun to take effect.

“Should I ask what Magnetizer is? Or what it does?”

“Magnetizer is like Daytripper, but dialed up. All the way up. The mood enhancement is more potent, but the side effects are, too. My muscle power and stamina are both gonna be shit for a few hours.”

“Guess it’s a good thing we’ve planned to unload the majority of our stuff at your place, then.”

“You’re not going to like me once it takes full effect.” Sticks choked up his grip on the flamer, but still didn’t look to ‘Choly. “Fuck, actually-- you of all people might.”

Words eluded ‘Choly, and he stewed on his worries. Sticks pressed on across the bridge, weaving carefully between the weather-rotted vehicles congesting the way.

“...Why did you drink it, without knowing what it was? If you thought it was anything at all?”

“I was confident I knew what it was. And I didn’t want her to poison you.”

“--Why drink it, if you thought it was _poison_? Couldn’t you have just... poured it out on the floor or something?”

“We don’t always make the most rational decisions when someone’s life might be on the line.”

“Are you... glad it wasn’t poison, at least?”

“That much Magnetizer would have killed a lightweight like you, that’s for sure.”

Silence overwhelmed the trio again, and they crossed the bridge without further comment. By the time they were on solid ground again, ‘Choly hemmed.

“...You had the feeling, too, right, that we were being watched on base?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Why?”

“Do you still feel it?”

“I want to be wrong, but honestly? Yes.”

“I didn’t want to mention it,” Angel agrees sheepishly. “I still don’t trust my sensors, I’m afraid.”

“What is it?” ‘Choly asked his Handy.

“Something robotic, I believe.”

“Fuck-me-in-the-mouth, she tailed us.”

An Eyebot rattled through, with a prerecorded script on loop. Anytime a specific name or noun came up, a different quality of voice and recording interrupted with it. The spherical hovering robot, with a grill plate guarding its front and a myriad of antennae jutting backwards off it, did not seem bothered at all that it had an audience, and announced its information readily and repeatedly without a care. ‘Choly unclenched when he realized it was just an Eyebot, but Sticks remained poised, watching.

“ _RobCo Industries_. A _household_ and _industrial power-House_ since _2042_! Are you looking for a rewarding career in _computer technologies_? _RobCo Towers_ is now hiring for a variety of positions specializing in _data processing_! Apply--”

The ghoul lost his composure and let loose with the flamer, immolating the robot. It turned hostile, and got off a single unaimed laser shot in their direction before it crashed to the shore sand. Its speaker crackled and sputtered, and at first the three of them thought the sound an indicator how quickly the robot was melting, but then a third voice came through.

“-- _Olivia, it doesn’t have to end like this_ \--”

The trio jerked back when the Eyebot exploded.

‘Choly started to yell at Sticks for having destroyed it, but the ghoul cut him off.

“--I haven’t seen a robot Pawtucketville side in decades. Can’t be a coincidence. And it didn’t come from Deenwood, that’s for _damn_ sure.”

‘Choly’s face slacked. “...The Devils. They know we’re mobile.”

“No, they think _The General’s_ mobile. I guarantee you, she’s about to get some very surprised unannounced visitors. I don’t think the DEFCON One was for us.”

The chemist dismounted, to walk the remainder of the way to the Sampas parlor. He didn’t like what Sticks was insinuating the Eyebot signified.

“...She dressed me up as a high ranking officer to decoy the Devils’ surveillance. They think I’m her. They think no one’s home. Am I really that disposable to her--”

“--Ideally, she’ll have knocked out most of their robotic assets before we have to deal with ‘em. Stressful as it sounds, it’s bought us a little time for me to let this stuff wear off before we get to Voire. Let’s get inside, hm?” Sticks thumbed at the parlor expectantly. Once he had the security mechanisms disarmed, he held the door open for the Handy and its owner. “Angel, get in there so we can unload ya. We’ve got some time to kill, and a lot to get done today.”


	22. Adonta Ta Mele (Ch55)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, consent issues, sexually charged violence, (non)lethal overdose, what amounts to safeword suppression.

The chemist and the longshoreman unburdened Angel of all but the essentials of the former, and added on some for the latter--‘Choly’s liquid assets including all his chems, the remaining batch of new Melancholia, a jerrycan, a coffee tin of assorted preserved rations, a leather roll of tools, and the crate of X-Cell Root. Each thing that Angel had carried this far, they placed somewhere appropriate for its purpose. They then dispatched the Mister Handy to stand watch outside with the instruction to alert them to impending threats from river wildlife or Rust Devils.

When Sticks began to dig around in the kitchen, ‘Choly hemmed a bit. Observing the ghoul metering his own carrying capacity, the desire to help him tangled ‘Choly’s mouth. To test the length of their stay, he decided to remove his coat and hang it on the rack by the front door.

“It’s the nerve,” he mentioned as he passed through the double action door into the kitchen, and took to the wooden stairs in the back which led to the second floor. Not having followed the robot upstairs, he had to confirm for himself exactly where Angel had put his Merrick Index. “Can’t bring myself to ask it for chems. I find myself rehearsing my justification, and just... not following through.”

“This is the exact thing I hate about your arrangement with that tin can,” the ghoul groused up at him. He stood at the foot of the stairs, and threw out prosaic hands. “What do you need, that Angel’s keeping from you? It’s small but I’ve got a stash here. Med-X? Calmex? Mentats? I’m remembering right, that you liked Mentats, right?”

‘Choly stopped halfway up the stairs, to bite his lip as he stared up at the landing he couldn’t quite see over.

The very idea of telling him _yes_ terrified him. And yet,

“...You don’t happen to have... a working percolator.”

“Tch! This place was a restaurant before the war, and I tend to keep it equipped as one. Coffee, however, is something I can’t do you for. Percolator shorted out months ago. Never really drank it much, so I haven’t bothered to replace it. If you’re staying around after the dust settles, we can definitely invest the effort though.” Able to intuit his old friend’s nerves, Sticks warmed, but didn’t soften. ‘Choly would never hesitate to beseech Angel for _caffeine_. “You took off your coat, but not your holster or harness. Getting comfortable, but not too comfortable?”

“I’ve had my Nagant stolen from me once before. It’s a special gun. Modified to shoot Syringer darts. I’m not taking it off... unless you’re going to give me a tour of your bed while we’re here?” The lyric dribbled from him with a sly look to himself, “In which... it _all_ comes off? Mmmh?”

The ghoul couldn’t make out the entendre for a greater likelihood of seriousness or for stress-talk, and he blew out the absurdity through his noseless nostrils. His deeply scarred face screwed up as he rounded back to the front counter, and spoke through the service window as he resumed mentally preparing himself for everything the trip to Voire would entail.

“You know, back in the day, they apparently used to hold car shows in the parking lot.” Sticks eyed the faded flyer on the cork board by the register, but ‘Choly forced a breath through his nostrils and finished his trek upstairs. “Whole city’d descend on the place, flaunt their vintage Corvegas and Luxuriques. Came here once, back when it was still Glenn Johnny’s... Place swore they had the best lobster rolls in the Commonwealth. Lobsters aren’t lobsters anymore, but anyway I’ve got the recipe. Merrilurk makes a great roll, and I wouldn’t hesitate to whip up a few.”

“You’ve got _bread_?” burbled vulnerably from ‘Choly’s mouth as he sat in the living area, on the leather couch. He licked at his lips, pining absently for seafood as his mind divorced the notion of the Merrilurk from the lobster it once was. “I regret not getting off base more than I did, even after I was discharged. Maybe if I’d eaten something besides mess hall offerings, my stomach would have fared better. --Wait. The pieces of this conversation are giving me the vibe of... how do you put it. A restaurant that’s a good restaurant, but it’s a. _Front_? That the real money’s in some black market deals under the table. Have you got many patrons to your restaurant, Sticks?”

“Hah. You’re not all too far off. I mostly cook to cement business arrangements. You can get to just about anyone’s caps if you go through their stomach.”

“Caps, caps, caps. _Cap_ -i-tal,” he enunciated with a global pity. “Forever at the heart of it all...”

‘Choly stood after he caught his breath, and wandered to eye the gambrel upper story. To the back end of the story, a door stood with a blown-out window to either side, leading out onto a patio-balcony the chemist could see his friend had turned into a covered work area for taxidermy and leathercraft. The Merrick Index sat propped with other books on the secretary desk on the northeast wall. A steamer trunk and a chest of drawers sat to either side of the queen size bed in the opposite corner.

His mind lit upon the notion of their belongings intermingling like they had at 103 Old North Lane. He smiled.

“So what _would_ you like to do for lunch?” the chemist wondered. “It would be nice to eat something before we get to Voire.”

In one gabled arch-top single-hung window, Sticks had propped up a single square pane of geometric floral Nouveau mosaic that he’d salvaged, such that it caught sunlight. ‘Choly understood the ghoul’s implication, that sharing the squirrel chowder had cemented a reunion between them, that offering to make the surf rolls could cement that further. A business relationship... Perhaps the ghoul really wasn’t interested in him, or anyone else, in any other capacity. The silence between them bloated into a distended tension, and he found himself lost staring into the filigrees of the boldly colored antique glass fragments. _Even if the pieces fit, you can’t make it whole again the way it was._ He’d only identified large shuttered picture windows downstairs and gabled windows upstairs, and couldn’t place where in the quintessentially Cape Cod style restaurant Sticks must have saved the pane from, but he knew the secular art couldn’t have come from anywhere but here. A sardonic sigh trickled from him.

Sticks appeared behind him as though he’d stood there all along, and ‘Choly jumped. He wondered how long he’d drifted off in thought, for how disheveled the ghoul appeared. Clothing half-unfastened, he didn’t say or do anything, and he stared at ‘Choly with an unblinking evenness.

“I wasn’t-- I’m sorry--” ‘Choly stuttered, desperate to insist that he hadn’t been going through any of Sticks’s things. He noticed the ghoul had removed his inverse Nostrus glove.

Sticks continued to stand there, rasping steadily as though oxygen had been un-invented. ‘Choly flinched when the ghoul took a step closer, and he could see the rictus in Sticks’s jaw. The gloss in his dark eyes, the pained frustration in his brow... Olivia had indicated a double shot of Magnetizer was an overdose. ‘Choly’s eyes fluttered wide in alarm, at the understanding an overdose would bring about a death of his friend’s rationality.

“Oh. Oh god. No,” ‘Choly stammered, putting up his hands to resist Sticks closing any further distance. “No, no, no. This happened because of me. You’ve gone feral because of me--”

Sticks lunged at ‘Choly with a snarling roar, tackling him to fall back on the bed. He tried to push the ghoul off him, but despite the frailty of the chem, the ghoul still overpowered him, and subsequently endeavored to undress him. His glasses tumbled off in the bedding. Sticks managed despite lacking a hand, but struggled to remove the holster and harness.

“O-- oh, you’re taking me up on the offer after all,” he joked weakly.

Maneuvering his hands to minimize the risk of getting snipped, he panicked to help Sticks unbuckle him. He heaved. His mind couldn’t decide whether to cry or drown in arousal, but he knew he refused to draw the Nagant to tranquilize Sticks: he couldn’t risk any interactions with a chem he wasn’t familiar with, hurt his friend even passively, or, greatest of all, bear to halt the encounter. The mere subconscious fear to call for Angel choked him.

“You were just trying to protect me-- Oh, fuck-me-in-the-mouth, I’ve found the real you, and seen you fall feral, too-- I poison everything-- Gneteia, you can’t-- The chowder should have been enough--”

With his shirt and harness unfastened, the ghoul flayed open the garment with a hiss to bare the orthotics corset. ‘Choly watched all the while, heavy breathing stifled by the corset. The ghoul lingered kneeling over him for some time, laying his eyes upon it stilling him, before he heatedly felt of it with both his wrist and hand, and licked of the canvas hungrily with a guttural delight.

“Y-- yes. The corset. Jacob... _Jacob_... You like the-- oH-- Ah, hello--”

The ghoul moved to unfasten and pull down the chemist’s pants, only to stop short of pulling down the underwear, and he straightened to stare heaving at him, a certain crushed devastation creeping over his gnarly slack-jawed face. With the ghoul both frozen and speechless, ‘Choly pawed about in the bedding to retrieve his glasses and put them back on.

“You... you stopped...” he uttered with sheepish disappointment. The dream couldn’t evaporate so easily.

Agony drew back the corners of Sticks’s mouth, and his head cocked askew.

“You’re damn right I stopped. I might be an easy bag, but I am not a rapist. Jesus Christ, Mindy. You really thought I was gone. You really thought I was gone, and you _just let me keep going_. You wouldn’t have stopped me, would you? You wouldn’t ha--”

“--yOU FUCKED WITH ME?” ‘Choly jolted upright in the bed, finding the momentum and force to shove Sticks off him at last. He glared at the ghoul in languorous knotted lust. “Go-ohd it wouldn’t be rape. I want you so bad. Please. Please turn whatever that was back on. I have never been more throttled in my LIFE.”

The ghoul’s jaw slacked again in a mental exhaustion.

“You really are attracted to ferals.” He laughed, shaking his head in defeat. “Yeah, yeah we can fool around before we go. But... didn’t you promise Angel something?”

“The Rad-X.” ‘Choly tried to get out of the bed, but couldn’t manage it with his pants down to his knees. Sticks slammed down his hand on the waistband of the pants to keep him from escaping, and ‘Choly squirmed with a whine. “I’ll take two-- No, _three_ \-- if it’ll make you happy. You think three’s enough? To keep Gneteia away? God, please. I’m inconsolable. You’re such a fucking tease. I canNOT-- _Drag me down with you_ \--”

“--Stay put,” the ghoul snarl-grinned before letting go and standing. “No need to clue Angel into our little role-play. I’ve got some.”

A stuttered, husky chuckle trickled out of ‘Choly as he watched Sticks sift through the bottom drawer of the secretary desk. He half believed he might be more coherent while high.

“You’re not allergic to any antibiotics, right?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Macrolides,” he uttered mechanically, briefly as though telling a doctor. He shook the circumstance, and wondered, “What, why? Rad-X isn’t an antibiotic.”

“If you’re gonna stack it, you need to chase it with one. You’re the chemist. You should remember Rad-X increases risk of infection. Penicillin is okay? It’s really the only one I’ve understood has a reliable shelf life.”

“I _was_ a chemist.” He paled, stifling a pout. “I’ve kind of slept since then.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not every day I remember something a chemist doesn’t. I’m just ribbing.” Sticks gave ‘Choly a carton of water. He opened one pill bottle, and shook a few pale blue capsules into ‘Choly’s hand. “Three, you said?”

Without waiting for an answer, he also shook out from a small prescription bottle a scored dark green tablet as well, then gestured with his wrist to the drink. ‘Choly glanced down trembling at the medication, and did his best to take them one by one despite great difficulty. Put the pill in his mouth, add a sip of water, tilt his head back, mentally insist as he stared at the peeling ceiling that he needed to swallow... and then he’d gulp. He set the water back down, and tried to snatch a fistful of shirt to drag Sticks back into bed with him. He missed with a whine, but Sticks obliged regardless, relenting to a sloppy heated make-out punctuated with husky nasal snarls.

When ‘Choly ran his tongue over Sticks’s upper lip crack, Sticks lapped at ‘Choly’s chin scar. The chemist jolted, and he stuttered out his panic and jammed his boot heels in the bedding trying to hike himself higher up in the bed, but the ghoul was fast on him, hungrily chewing from his chin all the way up his jawline. Sticks tipped ‘Choly’s hips to one side, to facilitate his right hand feeling up the orthotic corset’s lacing. The petting didn’t last long, and his hand dipped into the waistband of ‘Choly’s underwear, to grip a buttock with rigor.

“I fear I’m going to lose track of how many times I’ll get dressed today at this rate,” ‘Choly wheezed with a whimsy-drenched smile.

Sticks snarled and ground against his hip in vague protest, eliciting a panicked blissful laugh. A pair of arms wrapped around the ghoul, begging him to remain this close despite his seeming derangement. With the limb pressed against ‘Choly’s chest, he craned down to lap at Sticks’s terminated left wrist, straightening only long enough to guarantee he could reiterate the attention uncontested. The ghoul couldn’t make sense of the interest, until ‘Choly’s mouth found itself from wrist to elbow with the same diligence it had paid him the night before.

“Do you want to suck me off again,” the ghoul supposed, watching. “You can suck me off again, if you want.”

With a self-conscious moan ‘Choly straightened and desisted, trying to fish instead for more kisses. Ultimately, the thought couldn’t quit him.

“You’ve-- misunderstood me,” ‘Choly insisted. His chin nuzzled drunkenly at the ghoul’s under-chin beard as the words came. “You want to be inside. Right? This... should be... the part that you...”

“You want me to do _what_ \--” Sticks blurted out, eyes wide. “Did you really mean it last night, that you’re a virgin? How--”

The incredulity sublimated into more obeisant grumbling when 'Choly guided his hand to instead dip down the front of his pants. His fingers dumbly traversed the hair, to come upon his softness. At ‘Choly’s urging, he slipped the first joint of a fingertip inside with a caution. He moved it slowly, back and forth, and observed the delight on ‘Choly’s face. After only a little of this, he jerked his hand back and pushed ‘Choly off him, to rise again from the bed with a great deal of unintelligible grousing.

“Of course I’d forget the--” The ghoul hissed his exasperation as he vanished down the stairs. “Hold on.”

‘Choly languished on the bed just long enough to sit up and throw off his boots, pants, underwear, and socks. Then he covered up with the heavy blanket, ears locked on the sound of Sticks rummaging. He’d nearly drifted off in throbbing disappointment, only to have the cover ripped off him by the wild-eyed ghoul.

On the nightstand had appeared a wine bottle. Before the purpose of it even came into question, the ghoul was already climbing atop him with hungry teeth bared. Clicking horribly up at him, the ghoul snapped at his crotch, only to smell of the hair, and lick of him firmly. ‘Choly pressed his knees together abruptly, heaving electric with panic all over again, his head cocked back into the stiff pillow. Sticks gnawed at the side of his neck and let his right hand wander again, letting his fingers dip inside one at a time until all four fit for some time in a wet writhing mess.

_Just reach inside me-- Reach in and know me-- Chew me up, consume me--_

The ghoul’s tongue lapped in a single track from shoulder to larynx, before he felt he’d sufficiently reduced ‘Choly to a total need for the requested act. Sticks urged ‘Choly to get diagonal on the bed, and grabbed for the already-open bottle. He poured a little into his hand, to spread it all over his wrist and forearm. It smelled like stale linen, but not offensively enough to frustrate. After a moment of mental logistics, he draped ‘Choly’s right leg over his shoulder, and got comfortable on his knees and elbow, before rubbing his wrist against ‘Choly. ‘Choly couldn’t help but moan, starting to pant from the endless march of unrelenting teases.

Slowly, the limb tried its best to slip inside. Sticks shifted the weight on his right elbow a bit. He held ‘Choly still by the laces, his cheek against ‘Choly’s thigh. A sudden and dramatic increase in tension prompted a dripping yelp and a languorous posture. The deeper Sticks succeeded, the more tangled up in the pillow ‘Choly’s arms got.

Then the ghoul slowly began to pull out, only to push it back in again. The more confident that he became, that the girth of his arm was helping far in excess of causing any hurt, the more frenetic and jagged he let the motions get, and he fell back heatedly into the roleplay. He let out a roar-hiss as he sucked ‘Choly off while still pumping his wrist into him, and ‘Choly dug his heel into the ghoul’s back flesh in a desperate grab for traction.

Sticks built his pace, and eventually reached up over ‘Choly’s torso to clamp his hand over his mouth to silence his pathetic whining. When the chemist’s left foot wandered to the ghoul’s groin, he flinched, thinking he was about to get kicked in the crotch, and pulled away without pulling out. When the foot stayed, and toes wandered to play with his length, he slouched in glossy-eyed resignation and verbally brokered peace with the understanding that ‘Choly was doing his best to reach and reciprocate.

“I, what, what, oh, oh uh. No. No, okay. Okay, uh. UhhhHYOU know what go for it. You’re just continuing to rack up first times for everythinG OH--” The ghoul panted, rigid all over. “Monkey tOES. THAT IS-- _HI_ \--”

With Sticks disarmed enough, ‘Choly shifted his right leg underneath the ghoul, so he could use both feet to jerk him off. The ghoul disrupted the whole arrangement just long enough to confirm he liked it enough to welcome it, grabbing for the bottle, and lubricating himself before refreshing the lubricant on his arm and resuming the revised posture. The arrangement continued in mutual torment long enough to drench them both in sweat.

“No,” ‘Choly wheezed in fevered supplication, “no, don’t, please just, _pomogi mne_ , go _easy_. Stop being _so rOUGH--_ ”

It wasn’t until the ghoul pressed down his teeth to grip a wide-open jaw-full of pudendal flesh that ‘Choly came undone in a writhing, inconsolable mess, his toes twitching in rigor around Sticks’s dick. Unable to think straight but recovering his coordination, ‘Choly got precise with how slickly he dragged the balls of his feet and coaxed with his toes, occasionally grasping the sides with his big toes as he could get a grip. ‘Choly twitched, his eyes lolling as he came a second time, and the double success was enough to drive Sticks to satisfaction.

Eventually, they both slumped in the bed, tangled in one another.

“That’s certainly one way to de-stress before a major life-threatening conflict,” ‘Choly mumbled, delirious. “Fuck. Twice in twenty-four hours.”

“If you had any idea how the rest of our day is gonna go, you wouldn’t be letting yourself get this bed-beached.”

‘Choly floundered dramatically in protest with what little energy he had left.

“Bozhemoy, just let me lay here with you a little longer.”

“Only if you don’t fall asleep on me. Big day. Big... fucking... day.”


	23. Passive Periphrastics (Ch56)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Drug culture talk, abuse loop narratives, sensual-ish. (Revised 4/4/20 because I am a fool and an idiot and didn't realize I had already written this chapter, so I wrote it twice.)
> 
> ...Swapping your love... for hate...

"You were right.”

The pathetic words fell from ‘Choly before he could even process it as an admission. He whimpered, at last mustering the determination to turn onto his side and curl against Sticks, and would have shut his eyes if he didn’t enjoy mentally tracing every feature of Sticks’s physiology and attempting to approximate them with his memory of what the ghoul had looked like before. He couldn’t make sense of whether it felt like centuries or months since they’d lived together; at once, they equally made sense and didn’t. His weak lips grazed at Sticks’s scarred neck, and his face found itself in the crook of his shoulder. The ghoul was staring off into the gambrel trusses above them, but murmured. He explained,

"That it was a mistake to let me lay here. Like this.”

He climbed atop Sticks, and Sticks let him. He nipped at the ghoul’s lower lip a moment before kissing him. He disguised his conflicted, deep exhaustion by laying down on Sticks’s chest with a smile. Sticks wrapped an arm around him.

 _How am I going to get through this day without any chems?_ He could invoice each individual muscle in his body by the magnitudes of his aching. The dose came to mind, of the designer chem Olivia had given him the day before. Had it even _been_ just yesterday? The day felt like a week, or a month, already, and they weren’t even yet to Voire. He couldn’t recall where the X-Cell-Squared had ended up in the shuffle to get off base. _I don’t know how long it’d last, anyway, or even how well it’d help._

“Do I need to dress you myself?”

“I’d rather you _und-_ -” He bit down the words before he said anything further. _I’d wonder what got into me, but he’s_ under _me_. “Sticks.” His heart stuttered as he felt himself grow even heavier. “If this was you on Magnetizer, and Magnetizer didn’t exist... before, what was your excuse when you gave me the chin scar?”

A choke knotted from the ghoul’s larynx to his exposed turbinates. He petted disarmingly at the chemist’s dark, disheveled head.

“Though never a habit, I’ve admitted to falling back on Day Tripper on occasion. They’re related. I don’t remember if I took any the day I... ah. Supposing I could blame the chems if I really wanted... Look, I don’t mind that we fooled around. Gave me time to work out the Magnetizer before we get to Voire. It was... nice, besides. Thank you.”

Self-consciousness gripped ‘Choly tighter as time passed, and at first he believed the compulsion to cover himself accounted for by a simple creeping chill. He couldn’t get why Sticks wouldn’t want the upper hand in negotiating with and managing the Furriers, if the chem would have further informed his influence. Were all the details of this Unfolding really all already hashed out?

“Is it... _still_ you on Magnetizer?”

“Probably why I can’t shove you off me yet,” Sticks chuffed. He flopped his head for emphasis, finding the incumbent admission difficult. “I... think it would help me. A lot. If we did this again. Maybe, if you show me what you like about ferals, I might be able to unpack how the inevitability of it makes me feel. Perspective. Been forever since I ripped open old wounds like this. Really makes me feel alive. Maybe it’ll finally... heal right this time.”

‘Choly nodded faintly, all he could think to do. He hated that he couldn’t piece together Sticks’s motive, but he hated more that he even found himself _trying_ to. If he didn’t trust him, why had he laid with him twice in one day? The ghoul’s head sounded more a mess than his own, though, and he willed the periphrastic toward something more direct by skirting the hedge himself.

“If Magnetizer and Daytripper are used for the same thing. Magnetizer being the league of difference between morphine and _cyclo-_ morphine. Then, why didn’t you... ask the genie for a wish, when you had the chance? Standing right there, in front of General Francis?”

Sticks let out a lyrical snort.

“The General never extends opportunities like that without covering her ass. The side effects of the chem were her security. Helen could’a struck me dead right there for perceived insubordination.” Sticks gesticulated with his left wrist as he spoke, seemingly more to the room than to anyone in particular. “Let’s continue your fantasy analogy. I’m sure it’s like there’s ancient treasures, protected by a puzzle. There’s any number of ways to _get_ to the treasure, but a million more lethal missteps trying to extract it, let alone escape with it.”

‘Choly’s chest tightened.

“So you do want something from the base, then.”

“Anybody who knows what that place is wants something from it.”

“What is it you want so badly?”

It took some time for the ghoul to form the answer, and he chewed at his cracked mouth all the while.

“Connecting people to their vices is and always has been my addiction. Never been able to kick the habit, ‘cause I never felt the pros outweigh the _cons_.” He paused a moment in hilarity of his own nonsense pun. As he articulated what came next, his energy and enthusiasm gradually managed to draw him--and ‘Choly--upright in bed. “Before you came along, I would’ve asked for payment in as many crates of rare chems as I could tote off. That was our standard exchange for my services. But things are different now. I know a guy who can interpret and even use chem formulas. One I’ve got history with. You could... cook stuff up for me. For us. You know what they say about teaching a man to fish. I’d never have to deal with Deenwood, or the General, ever again. Neither of us.”

Before the thought could even come to ‘Choly, Sticks stiffened in place to throw up his arms.

“You wouldn’t even have to touch Psycho. Nothing you don’t want to. Only the good junk. The safe junk. General’s gotta have formulas for just about _everything_ under the sun. If we work together, you could cook up whatever you **want**. Most chems are a finite resource these days, without chemists alive to, well, _chemist_ them. All anybody’s had was ancient junk, or the easy junk like _Jet_. You could change all that. _We_ could.”

‘Choly stared dully into the crumbling ceiling. _There was no such thing as a truly safe chem. That’s where Angel was right. And yet,_

“She... _did_ say she’s got the precursor formula for Day Tripper... I wonder if she’d have the formula for Daddy-O...”

“And don’t forget the formulas and research for anything Deenwood hashed out, too! No DIA left to argue with us for... sharing notes with the Gen, hmm?”

 _What exactly is he getting out of supplying me with all this?_ The chemist’s face slacked, struggling to follow. His eyes shut as he came to the understanding that his Lexington arrangement fell through because he’d tried to broker _and_ cook. _Things wouldn’t have soured so badly if I’d only had Jacob handling the business end of things. I’m an artisan, not a businessman._

“I’m going to lay this out simply.” ‘Choly cleared his throat. “You need stock that customers can’t get from anyone else. You need to be their exclusive dealer. But Olivia only gives you the chems, not the means to manufacture them. What she gives you, and what you can steal from her, is a finite resource. She’s got you in a position that you have to rely on her, in order to have people rely on you. And even if you do obtain any of Deenwood’s pharmacological data, you wouldn’t have someone to decipher it, let alone engineer it.”

Sticks grabbed him by the shoulders and did his best not to shake him, almost to beg him _yes, yes, yES,_ the intensity of his glare emphatic on its own.

“Oh, thank God, we’re on the same page. I’d do anything in the world for you, if you’d be my partner in crime again, Mindy. We were perfect together back in the day. You remember that much, right? It’s so much easier these days. No rations. No bans. No government regulation. Just imagine, if we opened up shop.”

Despite the vulnerability, he trusted Sticks’s memory better than his own. No, he didn’t remember, and he got lost inside his own head trying to. Desperate to dismiss his head space, he tried to drag Sticks atop him for another go. Instead, Sticks brushed the gesture aside, and exited the bed. The cold shoulder elicited a vague frown, and he turned over on his side to watch Sticks getting dressed.

“You’ll get plenty more attention like that this evening, I promise. We really need to get going. If things play out anywhere close to ideal, we’ll have all the time in the world to fool around.”

Sticks rummaged the desk while ‘Choly righted himself and pulled his outfit back together. He came over to the bed, where ‘Choly sat, and gave him the glass bottle of antibiotics.

“You shouldn’t have to prompt Angel for your chems every single time you need them. Begging for something--regimental or occasional--shouldn’t be the default. _And I don’t care if it hears me_ ,” he hissed over his shoulder at nothing. “You tell me what you need, I’ll make it happen.”

As ‘Choly eyed the faded label, all the mysticism of the act washed out of him. _I took this without even thinking twice that it was what he said it was_. He tried to remember the standard dose for Clarimentin, let alone how to use it as a preventative rather than a treatment. Loopholes in his agreement with Angel wormed through his thought process. _It’s going to be very difficult to keep up with this, without Angel there like clockwork administering it for me_.

“--But hey,” Sticks leaned in to pat him on the knee to get his attention, with an enthusiastic smile, “first, lunch?”

Silence echoed between them while Sticks threw together a pair of bowls of noodles with nuts, carrots, and some kind of dark, gamy reconstituted meat. While the ghoul cooked, ‘Choly did his best to pin his hair back up, and nearly regretted that he’d never get it pinned again as neatly as Burns had, if it weren’t for him reminding himself how it fell out of the french twist in the first place. He smiled to himself as he ran his bare hand over his shaven nape.

Alongside the bowl, the ghoul produced a second pair of chopsticks, and ‘Choly managed with them by putting his reinforced gloves back on. To wash it down, Sticks popped the cap off a Nuka-Cola Quartz and handed the faintly glowing white-clear drink to 'Choly.

“I was keeping it for a special occasion, but I guess this is special enough. To our partnership.”

“Where did you even get it?” was all he could ask the ghoul as he sniffed of it. It _smelled_ enough like Nuka-Cola. “I don’t remember it being a Mass Commonwealth flavor...”

“That, you remember,” the ghoul ribbed, pocketing the cap. “Nuka-World sold all its available flavors. The rarer ones crop up all over the Commonwealth from time to time. Guess people kept them for souvenirs.”

“To our partnership,” he resigned. He set it down with a sigh, and slid it across the booth table, suggesting they split it. “I don’t get it. Tastes just like a regular one.”

Sticks took him up on the offer with a smirk and a shrug.

“All style, no content,” he supposed.

They headed out without catching Angel up on anything, Sticks with his flamer at the ready, and ‘Choly atop Angel with his syringer rifle. They assumed it knew everything that had transpired, and been said, in the same way it had known how their night at the rowhouse had gone. After a ways, ‘Choly couldn’t help but attempt to fashion a daydream of how he imagined this imminent ritual must go, but couldn’t form a concrete thought without details.

“I found two ampuoles of X-Cell when I looted Sanctuary Hills,” he started.

“You don’t say.” Sticks didn’t look up at him.

“--How it got there is besides the point,” he dismissed, sensing the comment taken as accusation. “I’m asking, would it be relevant during this... what is it called, the Unfolding?”

“It’s too different a formula from X-Cell-Root. Keep it.”

They said nothing for a ways.

“What about the X-Cell-Squared?”

'Choly gave his coat pocket a surreptitious pat, and did his best to conceal confusion at palpating the X-Cell-Squared. This was a completely different coat from the one he’d been wearing when he’d been given the chem. Hadn’t it?

“You shouldn’t participate.”

“Why not.”

Nearly, he wanted to ask if Sticks had anything to do with his possession of the Squared, just as he had to do with his possession of the Clarimentin. He hoped, at least, that asking about the Squared hadn’t prompted Angel to scrutinize its inventory file for where it had put the inhaler.

“You’ll thank me for sparing details.”

“--Well what about the X-Cell-Root itself, then! There’s a hundred units, and only eighty Furriers. Isn’t that plenty!”

“I thought you couldn’t stand your identity as a Deenwood officer.”

“I can’t work on my past if I keep trying--desperately--to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Well met, Sir!” Angel beamed. “Need I say thank you, Mister Carey, for using the Rad-X. And thank you, Mister Hawthorne, for being responsible about it.”

“They’re _my_ soldiers. My men and women. And what all else,” he added under his breath, reminded of Reese. “I’ve got to behave if I’m being graded. Am I right?”

Sticks slouched, only to straighten and square up his shoulders.

“...From the dram, down to the grain.”

“Need I remind, that we do still possess three doses of Rad-X,” it added.

‘Choly blanched before turning scarlet in the face. The Clarimentin. _The only reason I’m not suffering radiation poisoning is how much Rad-X I took. I had to take Rad-X as a_ prophylactic _. Just how sick would I be right now, if I hadn’t--_ He stiffened, doe eyed.

“The third hand. It’s yours, isn’t it.”

Sticks stuttered for a bit.

“Wh-- what,”

“Ick. I noticed Ick’s got the third hand. No arm attached to it. It’s yours it’s got to be.”

“You know, I’ve got so much more than just Rad-X at Glenn Johnny’s,” the ghoul deflected.

“So much more,” Angel scolded, “that Mister Carey will refuse. Do not tempt him.”

“I’m not tempting!” Sticks insisted. “I’m exhausting available options. It’s up to Alan to make decisions like this, not me.”

“...But it _is_ your hand,” ‘Choly continued, at a loss for the conflict between his partner and his companion.

“And did you only just now arrive at that conclusion, or was that part of what was getting you _off_ upstairs? Plenty more where that came from today. Just keep moving.”

The only sound for the next hour was the Handy’s thruster flame, the ghoul’s footsteps, and the river.


	24. Veneration (Ch57)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> States of becoming.
> 
> TWs: body horror, total community nudity, forced nudity, body horror, human experimentation talk, discussion of drug use and body horror.
> 
> Edit 2020.11.21: Have a WIP of the speech scene.

As they crossed the faded green truss-cantilever bridge between Downtown Historic and Voire, several scattered plumes of smoke took fresh to the air. A recent altercation had spilled the metallic, offensive stink of burning robotic fluids, and carnage from Eyebots and Protectrons littered their entry into the area of Lowell known prewar as Centralville. None of them liked the look of it, but they could find no evidence that the Furriers had suffered any casualties.

“If only we could run the Devils against whatever ungodly defenses these folks have,” ‘Choly whooped, glancing down around them and trying, from how many parts he could identify, to count how many of each kind of robot had been here. “We wouldn’t have to bother with this Unfolding nonsense.”

“No, we need to ‘bother,’” Sticks said, scanning for Furriers. He pulled a metal pea whistle from his pocket, and trilled it in lieu of being able to produce a similar sound with his cracked lips. After a pause, they heard the sound returned, and Sticks encouraged that they continue further into the suburb to Voire proper. “We’re talking a full robotic threat. Hard to say how many Eyebots and Protectrons the Furriers demolished, with how the Devils jury-rig them.”

‘Choly glanced down into the pit trap with an impaled Medical Responder Protectron in it. Its defibrillator pads sparked one more time and ‘Choly frowned. He wondered whether a similar setup could contend with a Sentry Bot.

Some robots managed, despite the damage they suffered from the defense traps, to catch fire to some prewar cape cod structures. As far as either could tell, the non-geometric composite mudbrick Furrier architecture remained in tact.

Having dispatched the robots, several disrobed Furriers, wearing only their Halloween masks, circled the three Rust Devils captured in wire snares. Though some trappers had partly fastened on their bandoliers, harnesses, or holsters, the rest seemed to have simply drawn their knives and guns, grabbed the nearest length of fiber, and run headlong to the Southwest route into Voire at the start of the invasion. The naked trappers better bound their captives at the joints with a mixture of rope and wire, and removed parts of their armor to make it easier to drag them into the settlement. As they hauled the Devils away kicking and yelling, they sang out:

“Our officer’s arrived at last! Our officer’s arrived!!”

Sticks dropped his flamer and slouched awfully, eyes on one of the burning prewar houses the Furriers were too unaffected to try to save. ‘Choly didn’t really notice his companion’s demeanor, too absorbed in watching the mutated locals joyfully leave behind an unceremonious trail of armor and rent garments as they toted off their prisoners and stripped them down to bare skin. The angles and placements of their limbs and joints, and the particular heft of their unusual musculature, felt no more demystified laid to the naked eye.

“Fucking weird that this place is an eye candy shop to you, but I can’t say it enough that it needs to stay at just that. Can’t believe I’m struggling to convince you not to do anything stupid. I’m jogging your chemist brain again, because I genuinely don’t think you’re getting it. Either that, or you’re not thinking with your _brain_. Sometimes it takes multiple doses of Addictol to kick X-Cell withdrawals, but it doesn’t work _at all_ on the rest of the X-Cell family. If you do it, you’re not just getting addicted to the chem: you’re getting addicted to its point of origin.” The ghoul ripped off his ushanka and threw it up at ‘Choly, who fumbled to both catch it and balance. “It’s only right, you Russki. The Colonel needs a thinking cap. May it give you a level head for what you’re about to do and witness. You get with Bones, Carey. I’ve got to speak with Ick before all this goes down. Alone.”

Donning the hat, ‘Choly pressed the fur lining of one flap to his face, lost in a moment of familiarity he couldn’t quite place. By the time he looked up, Sticks had made himself scarce. Albeit a bit deflated, what Sticks said soaked in. The chemist mouthed to himself, dully,

“Are they her responsibility… or her project…?”

“Sir, if I may,” Angel interjected at a caution, unsure whether it was a legitimate question. “It’s not so much what they mean to her… What do these individuals mean to _you_?”

The Mister Handy made him double-take, and he chewed at his lip.

“They’re people. I can’t even begin to tell whether they’re still human, but they’re people. Just like Jacob. If all they want before marching off against killer robots is an afternoon of nursing a chem habit and spending time together, who am I to deny that? Didn’t he and I just do exactly the same, in a way?”

“Didn’t you ever,” Angel scoffed with exasperated indignity before spiriting off its owner in search of their Mistress of Ceremonies. “Hopefully, this afternoon goes for the Furriers nothing like it did for the two of you!”

Bones wasn’t at the Reservoir House. ‘Choly struggled to locate her among the hundred trappers, with them all socializing in the nude. All he really had to go on was her simple skull mask. Though ‘Choly didn’t know it, Angel’s sensors seemed to know exactly where she was, and followed a comfortable, steady speed directly toward her.

Meanwhile, awaiting ceremonies to commence, the Furriers, masks on as always, had resumed bathing one another in the pond-style semicircular reservoir. Angel sped ‘Choly along around the perimeter of the waters, tracing the gradual slope of the embankment as it took a comfortable curve to round to the side and behind. Along the way, ‘Choly overheard some of the Furriers discussing their Unfolding plans. With them all disrobed, he could discern three stark ‘stages’ of Furrier–very mutated, somewhat mutated, and a small handful who seemed to lack mutations altogether. Some intended unions ‘like Terence and Irene,’ and he swore he heard another propose, professing they wanted with their lover ‘what Reese has.’ Others planned out with their neighbors, friends, and lovers what anatomy they wished to give or receive. They put their peculiarly gnarled bodies on display to offer their own parts, and admired one another with disregard for personal space seeking what they might request others to bequeath. Juxtaposed with what Sticks had told him before vanishing, ‘Choly understood that X-Cell-Root did this to the Furriers, and that the more disfigured they were, the more times they must have taken the chem.

Unease clammed up behind his ears. He leaned across the top of Angel to steady himself long enough to tie up the flaps of the ushanka.

Angel found Bones at the northern edge of the property, which had once served as a small recreation field beside the waters. The athletic skull-faced woman with four arms, three breasts, and short shaggy steel grey hair sauntered up to them and laughed, wringing her hands.

“Aah! There you are. Follow me up to the observation round.”

To the Southeast of the field rose a forty-foot incline, and she led them up it. ‘Choly remained atop Angel as they took to the highest elevation in the suburb. He assumed she believed that by doing so, he played the part of the officer, putting himself both mentally and physically above his enlisted, but he didn’t clarify his wilted constitution out of paranoia of voicing that he already felt so poorly by the afternoon. The hill’s crest held a second smaller, circular field from which they could see the entire settlement and surrounding area. A tall wrought iron guard fence once stood to the water side, to prevent anyone or anything from spilling down into the reservoir, but time had eroded, or invention had transplanted, much of it away.

“I appreciate your regard for the gravity of the rite,” she commented, taking note his behavior. He straightened, admiring her shoulders. “You look… distinguished, riding so. Your illustrious robot must have our X-Cell-Root. This will truly be a grand Unfolding.”

“Thank you, madam,” Angel beamed. “I never would have imagined I’d be compared to a mighty, commanding steed, eager to carry its owner into victorious battle!”

She glanced to toss it the grin in her eye.

“Perhaps not all metal life forms are so bad after all.” Once atop the observation hill, Bones urged ‘Choly to dismount, crossing her lower arms over her hips. “I must check your robot’s inventory for myself before we begin, to guarantee we have enough for everyone.”

‘Choly complied to make way for Bones to access Angel’s storage compartment. Angel noticed him stumble and steadied him with a tendril. Bones whispered instructions to Angel, and the Handy gave affirmatives at equal volume.

“Oh!” Bones cried, at first indiscernible as to elation or dismay. “So good the General provided us with extra. She thought ahead, in the event of unexpected guests.”

She guffawed warmly, and patted Angel’s chassis, then helped push ‘Choly back up atop the Handy. Angel left its storage compartment door open, so that it could reach freely into itself once administration commenced. He looked down between the front of his feet at the crate nestled in the middle of all his chems, and frowned feebly to himself.

_How could Angel be all right administering chems to a hundred people, when it now resists giving me even one Mentat? When did it start turning into a mobile vending machine for everyone but me? When I was captain, it helped me administer to a thousand enlisted, and it knew I smuggled morphine in my Melancholia but always dispensed it gladly. What’s changed, now that I’ve awoken into this freakish terrain?_

“Everyone!” Bones called out from the front edge of the mound, rhythmically clapping both pairs of hands. “Everyone, come!! Come now! We commence!”

As the Furriers in the reservoir and the settlement congregated at the mound, ten split off into the center of the circle–six very mutated, two somewhat mutated, and two unmutated–with the three Rust Devil captives in tow. The rest gathered around them. Angel positioned ‘Choly slightly off center, sandwiched between those in center and those congregating around them. ‘Choly couldn’t even begin to keep his eyes from wandering throughout the sea of anatomical singularity, so he did his best to focus on Bones alone, who paced around those in center. With everyone present, Bones started with a speech, her fruity voice clear and eager:

“We, the Furriers, Unfold today that we rejuvenate our perpetual stock. It is our tradition and our right that we accept this chem into us, that we usher the next era of our Voire. We cast down our masks in the rite--” she paused as everyone did as instructed, “--that we may slurry together and stand again anew in community, oneness, and purpose.” She gestured to those in the center. “These thirteen, our tributes today. They will over-dose. In a permanent death of ego they will witness our Unfolded infinity, and bestow it upon us all. May they each now speak their name, their intent, and their final wishes before their entireties become completely one with us all from this moment on.”

The ten Furrier tributes nudged the stripped-naked Devils to speak first.

“Please just let us go,” the first begged. She glared desperately out to those surrounding them, but received scorn rather than pity. “My name is Cherry.”

Reese rushed forward to kick her from her kneeling position, into the dirt. Undressed, the duality of their form became far clearer, and ‘Choly could understand why they had been referred to as both Terrence and Irene. Their vitiligo-mottled physiology mesmerized him. To their left Reese appeared to once have been a tall blonde woman, and to their right, a dark-haired man. The blonde hair, they kept short, while the dark trailed long, loose, and thick, intimating the look of a dyed side-shave. Their faces had fused together partly, down to a one-third overlay of skull and grey matter. Irene’s features contributed two pale left eyes, one embedded in the maxillary sinus, while Terrence’s only brought a single dark right eye to the face. Their orbits only seemed deep-set, for sake of the contorted angle of their join line, though their noses had fused nearly neatly. Their jaws had joined at an odd angle, still able to function provided they took turns. Supported by two lower legs, their right leg bifurcated at the knee. They each brought an arm to their remarkable geometry. From the approximate point of what would otherwise have been the symmetry of either, a second right arm jutted at the breastbone, and their shoulders and ribs captured the permanent backward curvature of a breath bolted in a moment of rhapsody.

“You’ll speak respectfully of the rite,” Reese growled, their left gold earring swinging forward with animation. With each phrase they alternated between the left and right side of their mouth with a terrifying snarl amounting from having infuriated both constituents of their persona. Their voice held in it a gravelly smoke, and ‘Choly could hear from the approximate throaty echo that they still possessed both larynxes. “This is our one holy day, Cherry, and fortune favors you that you’re included. This is not a death warrant: It is a _life warrant_. We are to let you carry on among us.” The veritable goliath dragged her back up by the rope binding her, and she knelt again, sniveling, dirty, and furious. “We honor one wish. One... respectful... wish.”

A second Devil blurted out, “I’d sooner die than play this sick shit. I’ve heard what this is. You call what you’re doing _religious_? It’s a fuckin’ CHEM HI--”

Before the young man could finish his tear, Reese had pulled their pistol from a thigh holster and shot him in the head.

“No one Unfolds without their consent. Even war captives have a choice here.”

Shaking, Cherry murmured, “We’re fucked. We’re fucked no matter what. Just let the chem shit be quick and painless. I’m begging you.”

“You wish for that which already is,” Bones soothed, petting the woman’s sun-worn buzz-cut face. “It’s the most painless thing you’ll ever experience.”

‘Choly noticed Sticks among the Furriers that had gathered around the tributes, declaring with his nudity his intent to participate. He did his best not to fall into a coughing fit, but still managed to choke on spit anyway.

“I...” The third Devil shook his head, broken from having his gang-mate murdered right beside him with the three tied up. “I don’t know what you want me to say... I’m Shrapnel. I... I don’t have anything more to say...”

“If you have no wish,” Reese replied, “I instead offer a gift. Furriers! Whoever retains the first memory from this Rust Devil, come to me for personal apprenticeship. Either you have unmatched humility, Shrapnel, or you will learn to.”

Jealousy and confusion burbled up in ‘Choly like bad heartburn, to understand that Sticks planned to participate all along only to insist ‘Choly shouldn’t do the same. He couldn’t make up his heart whether a matter of trust or confidence separated them now in the moment. Deep down ‘Choly could already see that the way things would pan out, Sticks took the role of the enlisted, and ‘Choly that of the officer. He swallowed, his ears ringing like static. _Surely, Jacob can’t have purposefully put me in such a position._ Hurt contemplation distracted him from the other tributes’ speeches, whether it had been Ick’s or Sticks’s idea for the ghoul to participate, and he was trapped between trying to figure out which of them to be angry at, and trying to shove down his grief.

‘Choly didn’t even realize that Ick stood among the tributes until he recognized the voice when he began his speech, and his jaw slacked in recognition, his attention snapping back to the ceremony itself. The old man with wiry, wild clear-white hair had some of the gnarliest of anatomy of anyone on the observation mound. His head emanated from his left shoulder, his left arm from where his head should have been, and his torso and legs were mangled and reshaped to where ‘Choly couldn’t even make sense of the bone structure. He _thought_ there were three legs, but he couldn’t tell, too intent upon the leathery, keloidal hand protruding from the ribs of his head-side, which gesticulated just as the other two while he twanged away anciently at his address.

“Today, I am Ick. Today, I become you all. I recall through my original Deenwood stock, and beseech the original stock that exists in you all, that every of the base’s officers was a different kind of wicked. My body remembers lots of the captains an’ lieutenants, remembers the tests. I know we all have some manner of nightmare in our guts, what happened on that base, before the war and after it a ways. But, there’s a reason we all carry generational memory of the General specifically. Most of ‘em only followed through with it all ‘cause their country told ‘em it was what was right; same applies to any original stock. But, we all know that the kinda wicked the General was, she still is: she wanted to, an’ liked to, make living creatures suffer for her personal scientifical gain.”

He went on to speak his wishes. The words came difficultly as he attempted precision in his vocabulary, to match the tone of the ceremony.

“My wishes are two-fold, as I am honored in my sixth memory of Unfolding. I’ve decided to attempt to give _back_ the given, and return to Sticks the flesh he’s lacked fifty years. Two Unfoldings ago, the General took from him his hand, and unrightfully gave it to me. Half a century, he’s been denied true Unfolding. He’s learned not to try to trick the General. An important lesson we all learn in one way or another. A body must only ply her or avoid her altogether. Today, Sticks becomes a Furrier in entirety.”

Sticks took a step forward and held up his wrist in expectant affirmation. Reese merely nodded and closed their eyes, awaiting the other half of the request. Before ‘Choly could compute the significance of having guessed correctly about the hand, Ick spoke next of _him_.

“In this way also, we must honor that Melancholy is only following out orders, by dosing us today. He is unique among the officers that have dosed us in all six Unfoldings I can remember. The others were honorary, but he, he holds the actual rank of Deenwood colonel. Look at his uniform! My stock recognizes it as genuine, for certain, as should ours all! He plans to lead us against the Devils, that we excel and triumph. That is why I beseech, Reese-- beseech that we must leave him as he wishes to exist, to choose where he has had no choice--that today, we let our commanding officer choose _whether_ he becomes us all.”

“--Sticks! If you had anything to do with this--” ‘Choly started, stooping to a jockey posture ready to fight.

The contention Ick’s request stirred among the Furriers, to break tradition, drowned out ‘Choly’s outburst, and he piped down to stew in gratitude of Ick’s self-censorship. He’d referenced ‘Choly as an officer of Deenwood, without explicitly waving a finger and reminding them all his full identity. His mind wilded in his skull, knowing Sticks told Ick exactly who he was and that Liv had promoted him, but mounting details just continued to further obfuscate anyone’s intentions, especially not those of anyone willingly volunteering to _be made tribute_.

“OFFICER!” Reese roared, to silence the Furriers. “We refuse to exclude you. State your name and intent: Do you spectate, or do you participate!”

With all eyes on him, ‘Choly sputtered and his head swam. For a moment, he believed the ultimatum presented him wasn’t whether he lived, but rather how he would die. He cleared his throat to steel himself.

“I didn’t think I needed to have a speech ready, so forgive me... If this stuff really does make it so you can access the same memories of Deenwood from over two centuries ago, then many of you already know me, or will in the moment, just as you all know General Francis. It’s inevitable that you learn the truth, so I may as well state my name and intent.”

He choked up the reins fashioned from chain and leather, and stood as straight as he could, balanced on Angel’s foot pegs. He ripped off the ushanka and visor and tossed them down into Angel’s open storage compartment, poorly tolerating the chill and the sun in his face.

“I am your colonel. Colonel Alan Carey, of the Deenwood Pharm Corps. Call me Melancholy! I’ve been asleep since the Great War, but stand before you today. This Unfolding business is different from when I supervised the testing of Agent CM on Deenwood’s enlisted. You may again be my enlisted, but you lot were not drafted: All have volunteered to aid the effort to eradicate the Devils from Lowell. This is your settlement, your _community_. There is no longer any country telling _ANY_ of us what’s right. So tell me, Furriers! What is right! You’ve tributed all others who delivered your X-Root. You called them your ‘officer’ for your ritual. Is this an effigy against the General? Ick just admitted the others weren’t officers. But today, I’m giving you the chance to put a real Deenwood Colonel to death.”

“Mindy, you idiot!”

‘Choly glared at Sticks with desperation, but quickly had to shut his eyes, the sun too intense.

“But... it’s our gratitude to include you,” a meek, gnarly Furrier from the crowd murmured, recognizing him. “The officer of the Unfolding holds the highest honor. You provide the X-Cell-Root. You administer it. The chem will fade from our bodies, but if you tribute yourself, we carry you in us forever. The Unfolding will be your doing, and we celebrate this.”

The sentiment sank in ‘Choly’s heart like a demented love letter, but he couldn’t convince himself for a moment that any of the description of physicality of the ceremony itself could be taken literally. Surely, the mutations they all exhibited were the sole consequence of chronic chemical exposure and experimental chem abuse. Surely, there was a better explanation for Reese’s anatomical arrangement. Possibly, the X-Cell-Root could, at least, provide the Furriers with a vision of history akin to Mama Murphy’s Sight. The idea that his dying experience might be another heaving ego death sent him back to the Jet overdose he suffered in the Corvega plant, and he nearly puked recalling it. Shaking, he made it look like he rubbed at his forehead, though he really needed to shield his eyes with his hand.

“As much as I hate to say it, ladies, gentlemen, and all, but watching is what I’ve been trained for. I’m going to make the executive decision that you do not want my _stock_ , as the conditions that made it possible for me to be alive today corrupted it. Since I can’t test how the chem will react with my body, I can’t, ah, tribute myself. But, I’m already, in my own way, made of past, present, and future, and I’m already a part of you all. I’m a ghost. I’m content to remain a memory. This day is about celebrating and respecting you all, because none of you got your dues when it mattered most.” With a look in his eye of knowing dying wasn’t good enough for all he’d committed in life, he weakly held up his left wrist, so that his enamel remembrance poppy cuff link caught the light, to represent in the circumstance all fortitude he needed but had drained from him across the entire day. “We do this in honor of all those before us, and all who come after. I will supervise, and do all I can to monitor your chem use to keep you safe. My Mister Handy, Angel, will dole your chem. Promise me that if I do this for you, whatever stands after the Unfolding will march with me.”

Everyone gaped rapaciously at Reese. With a conflicted look, they warmed to excitement.

“Then you spectate. Melancholy, you spectate! Today we truly have our commanding officer. This Unfolding will be like none other.”

“All right, everyone!” Angel cried out, excited to get to work. “If we’ve all had our turns to speak, I believe administration is in order. First, I’m to give the tributes their three ampuoles each. Next, to all betrothed, I’m to give two. After that allotment, I’ve three pincers, so you can form three queues! Ha ha! Plenty to go around.” As it began handing out its special stock, it turned its ocular lenses to look up at ‘Choly, and spoke at a hush. “I’m proud of you, Sir. At least one of you all ought to remain sober and lucid amongst all this.”

At once disappointment, remorse, and relief washed over ‘Choly. The tension of committing to a decision fell through, and he failed to process that he would probably never get a chance now to experience Unfolding. Yet, he warmed knowing he would still experience it vicariously, a feat at which he excelled.


	25. Relativity (Ch58)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did god create a dual universe? / So he might say, / “Be not like me. I am alone.” / And it might be heard.
> 
> TWs: Major body horror, major gore, major dissociative episode, NSFW, drug use, multiple implied deaths, mention of ambiguous animal death/cruelty. I've started losing entire days without noticing.

Each tribute cracked the neck of an X-Cell-Root ampuole, pressed it to one nostril to inhale its contents, discarded the glass, and proceeded to the next in methodical succession. They held the Devils still and opened their X-Cell-Root for them, and made it impossible for the vapors of to escape their panicked breathing. In an effort to hold her breath, Cherry only managed to hyperventilate, inhaling an entire dose at once. She didn’t bother fighting the remaining doses. Shrapnel, meanwhile, could only be dosed by holding a hand over his mouth and the glass beneath his nose.

The rest of the Furriers cracked into their own X-Cell-Root in as close to unison as they could muster. Reese took two, one in each nostril. When ‘Choly noticed, he nearly objected, only to trust they understood a need to adjust their dosage scaled up to their stature. He couldn’t tell if it had been five minutes or five hours since the ritual had begun. As the Devils sniveled and heaved, he worried whether he’d got on the wrong side of history yet again. His grip on the Syringer rifle choked up in anticipation of aggression, psychosis, paranoia, and excitation from the crowd.

_Surely, I afforded myself enough Pax darts. They might all require sedation as a consequence of this test. ...I hope I’m able to fire on all ninety-some subjects before they overpower me. One case, that’s fifteen, and three times is... how many?_

He squinted difficultly, math beyond him. His senses blanched. The Furriers commenced the first stage of the orgy Sticks had described. At once, the tributes existed in a state both of total presence and absence, cowed and compelled by the transcendental effect of the chem. They pawed at one another in a mutual, deferential urgency, asphyxiating on the immediate, deafening dissolution of identity. But then, that dissolution became literal.

 _I’m constructing this scenario to navel-gaze. It’s all purely symbolic._ His jaw locked. _...Of what._

The tributes’ flesh softened at the edges, streaked beneath one another’s touch, became pliant to their collective desperation. Colors blurred as their complexion lit up like the disrupted strata of many hues of raw clay. Unable to ground himself down, his breathing shallowed out. He flicked the gesture capture lever on his Pip-Boy, and steadied the stock of his pneumatic weapon against his hip to free up his right hand, favoring the computational device over his weapon so he could flourish into rote stenography. He had to remain professional. Impartial and removed from what transpired before him.

_I must write it all down. It’s my job to observe and annotate everything that transpires as a result of this formulation. Symptoms. Behaviors. Events. Social dynamics. Every detail I can. History or allegory, it still stands to serve society, to know what happens here today._

“Sir, hold steady yet,” Angel cautioned, noting its rider slipping inside himself. It nudged back to the side of the observation hill with the sloping incline, in case its rider needed an easy escape route to preserve his sanity. “We’ve only just begun administration and observation.”  


Fleetingly tethered, he weighed whether to switch to the Nagant over the Syringer. When he’d practiced centering himself atop Angel with the rifle in the robotics yard, he’d steadied the weapon against the top of it, and he hadn’t yet added the reins which required a different balance. It felt a little too much like juggling, to add balancing himself to the equation of wielding a rifle and transcribing at the same time. He estimated the modified revolver only weighed a few pounds less than the rifle, but would be steadied one-handed if he could help it.

He caught himself reaching for the Nagant anyway. His mind flickered the Nagant’s past and present identities over one another. In trying to tranquilize someone with Pax darts, he might instead kill them with 7.62mm bullets. He couldn’t confirm for himself with any certainty that what he understood to be real, _was_. Had the weapon even been modified at all? Had he shot that poor dog at the Red Rocket, when he’d only meant to subdue it? He whet his lips and caught his teeth on them ever so slightly.

_I had to steady a pistol with both hands, even before the war._

He forced himself to recall his routine firing range training at Deenwood, rationalizing his frail constitution to give himself a different reason to keep it holstered than forcing himself to wade through his status as both the lead character and unreliable narrator of his own motion picture.

His little surviving sense of focus remained on the tributes. Sticks neared Ick, and held out his left wrist to receive the hand they’d agreed upon. The dilation of time hiccuped, and they made a fleeting connection before the crowd dragged Ick in. The communal orgy swept into full swing faster than ‘Choly’s attentions could follow. Over the mounting moaning and yelling, any meaningful communication fell to Babel. The ringing in his ears escalated into pressure and sound isolation, and he became convinced the events before him now occurred inside a jar.

_Shit, they might not respect Ick’s last wishes. Or Sticks’s boundaries._

His heart ratcheted in his ribs, in a dialectic of delirium and dread. Past and present played tug of war with his vagus nerve, wringing him clammy and pale. The Furriers, in every sense, ripped one another limb from limb, all with the liberty of jaded enthusiasm. His throat filled with bones as he, trembling, felt himself deliberate whether to steady his aim to stop the carnage. Not a single one seemed concerned by any evident pain or discomfort, transfixed in the fleeting interstices between their individual microcosms. He persisted in transcribing his account, desperate to stay focused.

_They don’t exhibit the rage of the other formulations of CM. In addition to numbing and agitating a subject, many formulations can exhibit potent psychedelic properties, especially if they’re allergic to opiates. They appear numbed, and are definitely hallucinating. They might not be numbed, but rather simply rewired to feel pain rather than agony from their apparent dismemberment. But they don’t behave anything like they’ve taken CM. _There’s some outright stimulant property to it._ It’s more like Day Tripper, Mentats, or possibly even Calmex. This can’t be CM. What did they give me to test today!_

They stirred together, such that they could not be unstirred, the tangle of orgiastic flesh blooming pink with voluntary bloodshed.

Not unlike the conditioning of clay, or pulling slip, they contorted and clawed and flowed with a non-euclidean logic ‘Choly’s mind couldn’t quite follow. Much of the Furriers’ actions, rehearsed and habitual, served to smooth down the flesh as it left its current owner and found its next. Yet, just as much, the petting and attention served as worship and appreciation of one another, acclimating the commune to its shared new forms and angles. Nothing had to be permanent. Not for long. The tributes deliquesced altogether, betraying these deductions immediately.

The Furriers weren’t a commune. They were a colony, a hundred pieces of the same general creature. It occurred to him, that the chem might make it possible they all did share the same mind, if even only while simultaneously high on the chem that had fated this for them in the first place. Yet, he couldn’t wrap his head around the emotional and psychosexual proximity of these re-enlisted, that they’d allow this manner of simultaneous, all-inclusive coitus.

_Wasn’t there an ancient military that encouraged pre-battle coitus to foster connections among its troops? A_ _nd then there’s those monkeys. They have sex with each other as a social dialogue. ...That’s what this is. Social dialogue. It’s how they communicate and sync up with one another. If they’re all constituents of the same entity, is this some manner of autoeroticism? Dialogue with the self? There’s chems that have a history of making a person fall in love with themselves. Takes self-love to a new depth. Zenith or nadir, I can’t be sure._

Now that he had some command of context for what _compatibility_ could mean, he saw himself compelled to recall the conversation he had with Sticks on the way to Voire, regarding X-Cell-Root and X-Cell-Squared. Compatibility. Proximity. Understanding. Mutually, on every level. As an officer, he’d never to his knowledge been dosed with the same chems he tested on his enlisted. Jealousy stung his lungs.

 _I kidded myself. And everyone here. Of course I want to be included. I want more than anything to be included. To experience this myself! I’ve_ NEVER _been included!_

The agent of his agency dismounted him from Angel, and the world became a recolored black and white film, as though he’d been led into a remastered feature at the Starlight Drive-In. Everything felt like it filled his ears to capacity, as though the world didn’t fit inside itself. Staggering about the fringes of the group, his eye came to scan desperately for his swain. He could find no better way to anchor his sense of the material than attempt to include himself. If anyone was to combine with Jacob, it would be him.

“Colonel Carey--!” Angel cried out, cutting short at evidence of its owner’s next series of actions.  


He didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear anything.

He felt himself yell for Jacob. No one seemed to hear him, either.

He questioned whether he’d actually made a sound, and yelled again. His lungs and body trembled, but his senses only registered what vibrations that could resonate through his flesh.

_I can’t beg the X-Cell-Squared from Angel now, especially now that it knows what Root does._

One hand fished blindly in his pocket, finding the inhaler he repeatedly forgot he’d somehow retained despite the shuffle of dress and redress. The other hand ripped at his harness buckles and the snaps of his shirt collar. The actuator went to his mouth, and as the tart vapors of the compact four-ampoule chem mixed in his lungs and head, his cataracted eyes blurred behind eyeglass lenses which, in the moment, no longer matched them. His body piloted him in search of ghoul limbs.

Before he knew it, the Furriers had dragged him in, plunged him into the tang of blood and viscera, smeared him with their writhing vitality and sex. They had seen him take the dose of X-Cell-Squared, seen him begin to strip, and understood that he’d changed his mind. With him half-undressed, the Furriers continued pulling the clothes off him in alternations, unable to fully disengage one another for more than a moment.

He clammed up. The whole thing was off. He should have begun melting by now. They should have begun ripping him asunder. Rather than let this convince him the orgy was a hallucination, he instead took this development to signify something far more disappointing, and uniquely disturbing to him.

_It wasn’t the X-Cell-Squared that’s off bubble to the X-Cell-Root. It’s my stock, to theirs. My stock’s all wrong._

Though the chaos of collective ecstasy frustrated his attempts to locate Jacob, he found meaningful distraction with a leg sprawled across him. He captured it, with a feeble determination to feel something, and dragged it up to and across his face. Caressed and kissed and sucked at it. Paid delicate but ravenous attention to each individual toe. Grazed and nipped and traced the very edges of its sole. With his right hand, the Pip-Boy’s capture lever still open, he drunkenly traced poetry all along the calf and thigh. He paused agape every so often, intoxicated by stimulation, simply to bask in the sensation of a sole pressed against his solitary cheek and nose. In the moment the care eluded him, who it could have belonged to, not that he’d have been able to tell more than the fact it was probably attached to at least one of them. It could have been attached to him, or not attached at all, for all he knew. It only mattered that he be subdued and trapped indefinitely in the vulnerability of his moral destitution. He felt a heel grind down on his crotch, sobering him and shipwrecking him in the same measure. He was so helplessly disoriented that he couldn’t even tell if the Furriers had succeeded in fully denuding him. A turbid moan wheezed from him as he snatched another foot that came near him, and he breathlessly implored the same of it as the first, and the rest hundredfold, begging that he be kept underfoot forever.

_“--Rastoptat’ menya, navsegda--”_

The sudden understanding effervesced in him, like some dull filmy spume, that he experienced a vision of the future. He had lost control of his actions because he was witnessing that which was about to transpire, not participating actively in the present in any way. As he fell unconscious from heart strain even the performance chem couldn’t overcome, he fully anticipated he’d awaken to watch it all over again, for real the next time.


	26. Self-Absorbed (Ch59)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Nightmare sequence, incongruous chronology, unreality, body horror.
> 
> Lol, we haven’t had a flashback episode yet in Second Instar, have we? Have fun, ‘cause ‘Choly’s not. In the future this becomes another installment in ‘Choly’s Rexford Press Originals. (:

As he muddled through prescription fulfillment, Carey looked over his shoulder yet again. He saw the customer he anticipated finally entered the drugstore, and hastily finished up his current order. The thirty-some man he’d called earlier that morning had dusty blond side-parted hair, and stood as short as Carey, but seemed more sawed off than grown that way. Owing to the nature of the medication, as the head chemist, only he could take the customer. He pulled the pencil box size prescription carton from the cage, and confirmed it did in fact indicate it was for ‘Sal Mendez.’ He watched Angel busying itself in the front end straightening aisles, and waited until Sal was next in line before hopping onto the other register to wave him over. Mentally unable to set down the box on the counter, he kept it in both hands.

“Apologies, again, Mister Mendez, how it took weeks to get this filled. Calmex is one of the most rationed chems in the country at the moment.”

“I know. I know. But it. I talked to my doc.” Sal frowned to himself, and repeatedly smoothed at his short sleeve silk button down shirt as he eyed the various hard candies at the front counter at length. He eventually looked up at his chemist with a crumpled resignation. “The Milque wasn’t cutting it. You... you sure you don’t need it more? You look _peaked_ , Doc.”

Carey glanced down, at the lab coat tossed over his favorite ochre jumpsuit, the cobalt scarf tucked like a cravat into his collar, and his navy oxfords. He lingered on the unfamiliar braces on both wrists and both ankles, but readily dismissed their explanation as unimportant. What mattered was that he didn’t look the part of his vocation, and a head chemist had to command reassurance and reliability. It was one thing to be haggard, but another altogether if he _looked_ it. Well, that just wouldn’t do! He thought to what Hawthorne could usually put his hands on pretty quick, and weighed his choices against what he thought Sal might find most useful. With a big, wide grin, he straightened and patted at the Milquetoast display on the counter.

“Milquetoast is completely and totally safe. Fantastic for insomnia, shakes and nerves, headaches, nausea, you name it. But... I wouldn’t recommend using it alongside _this_ prescription. _Or with alcohol, were you to have access to any_.” He leaned in and turned off his customer service voice, to discuss the consultation more privately. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you some Day Tripper, if you can water me down. I’ll even take moonshine at this point, Sal. Between you and me, I thought I was done having this war effort kill me inside-out.”

Sal’s jaw dropped a moment before he, too, leaned in with a nervous smile.

“For you, Mister Carey, I will find you something very nice. Really, though. Should I be worried? To take this? My doctor said it’s tranquilizer. She explained it all to me, but that was weeks ago...”

“Alan!”

Gretchen Nordstern didn’t seem all that gangling from where she sat on the far counter in a Peter Pan collar tea dress with the confidence to match a pair of trousers, chewing a lit cigarillo and taking notes against her lap with the phone receiver wedged between her shoulder and cheek. Her low, dark bun wore a colorful crocheted snood.

“You’ve spent half an hour with that client.” She didn’t have to look up to impose, waving him off with her free hand. “Let Mary and Trudy handle front end already.”

Carey hemmed a spell, unsure how that could be true. But he didn’t want to question his boss. He stared off in her direction as he addressed Sal.

“I, I’m sorry, Mister Mendez. I’ve got others to see to. If you’ve any questions...”

When he turned to his customer, he trailed off. Sal had vanished.

Gretchen shoved into his hands a letterhead with a handful of scripts. He stuttered, glancing it over. _Med-X. Clarimentin. Immunoluxe._ His eyes glazed over the usual orders until he encountered the words _Psycho (Cyclomorphine Chloride)_. His heart hiccuped, and his eyes briefly lost focus.

“Wh-- Gretchen, please. Please. Please tell me this is some kind of-- How did this-- How did-- It’s on the--” He cleared his throat and whet his lips, but it didn’t help. He shakily pointed to the line on her invoice. “ _How is this on the market, ma’am._ ”

“Don’t be such a worrywort. It’s government approved. It underwent rigorous testing before it hit the market. What could possibly be wrong with the stuff!”

He couldn’t argue without breaching military confidentiality. Walden Drugs had to make ends meet somehow, right? And if whoever was getting the Psycho had a prescription for it, at the very least they’d be taking it under a physician’s supervision. He knew the dwindling prescription numbers didn’t mean people weren’t getting sick or injured less often: it meant more people were dying. Between the malcontent of the Canadian annexation, the endless crisis against the Chinese causing the deepest economic depression the country had ever suffered, and the mounting volume of riots taking place on home soil, the United States teetered on a second Civil War. And yet, these factors didn’t explicate in his mind why people had begun to drop like flies as of late.

 _Usually hear from Jacob by now_.

He frowned as he dialed the Lexington branch to call in the Psycho prescription order, and got to completing the invoice Gretchen had given him. He and Jacob had planned that morning to have lunch together at the malt shop. He decided to go check on him and Sal. He hung up his lab coat in the mudroom, and waved to his coworkers to let the two ladies know he’d be stepping out.

“Angel, I’m going on break.”

“Right along, then, Sir!”

The Mister Handy followed at his side.

He popped his head into the small bed and breakfast across the way, wedged between the Wright’s Inn at the corner opposite the drugstore, and the bookstore further down. When he didn’t see Sal, he approached the check-in and asked after him of the young attendant in a chignon and sheath dress. She indicated no one had seen him since the morning. He declined her offer to take a message for him, shook his head, thanked her, and left.

It sat uneasy with him, but he chalked it up to still feeling awful about the local call for cyclomorphine. Nothing that he wanted as far away from him as possible ever stayed very far away for long.

Once a Pick-R-Up passed, he jaywalked with Angel to the hardware store at the corner. Only a few customers loitered, some genuinely lost without advice from an employee, others genuinely considering unattended theft. He got to the foot of the employees-only stairwell, but stopped short of scaling it. His gut quivered.

“Angel, be a dear. Pop up and see if you can find Jacob.”

“Certainly!” It came back quickly. “Not a soul on the roof, Sir.”

He frowned and gestured that they leave. His leg felt tight and stiff, but he shrugged it off.

_Hm. Was I limping earlier? No, I’ve had this limp a long time already._

On his way back down the street, Carey glanced in the windows of the malt shop. Jacob wasn’t there either, nor Sal. Jacob’s car was still parked outside the hardware store. The repairman was disinclined to go anywhere on foot all that much if he could avoid it, so Carey doubted his roommate had gone home for lunch without saying anything about it. He gave up on the idea of malt shop food, as he preferred to share it. Instead, he sat down across the street from the drugstore, on the Wright’s Inn’s spacious porch, with a Nuka Cherry from their vending machine and an order of three arancini from Piretti’s Bakery. Sometimes the texture of the rice balls reminded him of ezhiki, and he got a bit homesick.

_I should just stick to Melancholia. There’s only one flavor of toska to it._

He noticed the construction sounds in front of the municipal plutonium well had ceased. He glanced up with his mouth full to see there were no workers in the street. He supposed it was their lunchtime, too. When he finished eating, he required Angel’s help to stand again.

_Am I starting to feel my age, or am I just that full?_

He returned to work. Once he had on his coat again and come back out to the front end, he saw some kids poorly picking the lock on the adult care case. He side-eyed Angel, who handed him the keys. Spinning the wrist coil on a finger, he strolled up with confidence that belied his limp.

“Hey there, gentlemen! Looking to buy some No-Gesta today, I see. A fine choice in preventative care!”

The boys sputtered in embarrassment at being caught trying to shoplift. Angel simply hovered behind them to cut off their back escape route out of the drugstore, while Carey withdrew an entire case of product. They followed the veteran in service uniform speechlessly to the counter. The older one scrambled through his pockets along the way, desperate to figure out if he even had enough to buy what they’d intended to steal.

“I’ll tell you what!” the chemist announced--in his stress of recognizing he’d put on the wrong white coat, a little too loudly--though they seemed largely alone all the same. “They’re usually fifteen dollars each, but if you buy six, I’ll give ‘em to you for seventy-five.”

“Gee, that’s awful generous of you,” the older one started, urging the younger one to play along, so as to curb the possibility Carey might call the police on them. “Bruce, you wanna go in on this with me fifty-fifty?”

“Only if that’s the only thing-- never mind. Lemme count how much I got.” He produced a fistful of wadded papers Carey could tell weren’t money. “I’ve got twenty-eight bucks. What about you, Jeb?”

“Thirteen. Awful.”

Carey smiled with a twisted, cool benevolence as he set two out of the case and nudged what was left toward the boys.

“How about just four, then. Hm?” He wagged an eyebrow and held out his upturned palm expectantly. They uncertainly exchanged all their cash for the prophylactic kits with entendred packaging which resembled an exclamation point but reminded of something else entirely. He tucked them into a paper bag and folded it off lackadaisically, then handed it to them. “Off you are, then!”

Mary walked up soon after he shooed off the boys. The older squared, thick woman, in a pencil dress and cardigan, held a hand to her mouth to hush herself, aghast.

“You sold No-Gesta to some high schoolers?”

“You’d rather they have stolen it?” He shrugged at her. “Age means nothing whether someone needs that sort of care. They’ll copulate, whether or not they can get things like No-Gesta--and wouldn’t you rather they did so safely?” He tucked the vaguely paper-like wad into the register, and his glasses dipped off his nose, caught from falling by his eyeglass chain. “Besides, a sale’s a sale, and customers get scarce.”

_Why haven’t I been more worried where everybody’s gotten off to?_

He looked out to find Jacob’s car had been left, abandoned and askew, run up onto the sidewalk. _Like it was, morning of the bombs_. The cognitive disconnect insisted he had no idea what he could have meant. He slipped his glasses back in place.

“Hey, Angel...” He cleared his throat. “Have you-- Have you seen Jacob?”

“What a silly question, Sir! Just look down!”

He did, and succumbed to fever, short breath, and sweats. His legs writhed, granular, tumescent, and grotesque, more like a filariasis than the countless bodies he knew comprised them. The tightness and swelling paralyzed him from the waist down, and kept him upright in substitute of bones or any meaningful ligature. He identified Duchesne among the clumped, corpuscular rivulets, and choked up.

He looked up. Gretchen, Mary, and Trudy were nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t have to look down again to understand he’d soaked them up as well. He dry heaved, to no effect. Desperate to reach help from someone, anyone, he tried to walk to the phone at the other end of the counter, only to fall after a single step. And he continued falling, into himself, having become an infinite labyrinth of flesh, a Klein bottle of grief.

 _Concord’s empty because I subsumed everyone_. He cried, slipping through narrow, trembling corridors of sopping tissue. _I’m the sole survivor of Vault 111 because I stole survival opportunity from them all. I stole this from my customers and coworkers. From my neighbors. From Jacob. Everyone gave their lives, so I could keep living._

_And for what!_


	27. The Masks We Wear (Ch60)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Body horror, mental snap, unreality, sensual, vaguely dysphoric.

Disoriented and sweating as he awoke, ‘Choly’s ears rang. He did not recognize the bed, made with soft woven textiles and patched together fur hides. He found his glasses on the nightstand, and he rubbed at his face before putting them on. Noticing he was not alone, he drew up the covers to his chest as he sat up.

A man sat in the far corner, in a thickly furnished, well-loved armchair, working attentively on something in his lap. At least, he assumed it was a man. As before The Unfolding, the figure had resumed wearing a mask. ‘Choly’s head pounded as he tried to make sense of recognizing the mummy mask. The man had taken Ick’s.

 _It can’t be Ick. He, he died in The Unfolding. That’s not what he looks like. He’s not a--_ The figure in oiled leather garb glanced up to him, aware he’d awoken, and gravity slacked ‘Choly’s face. ... _Not a ghoul_...

The figure raised his scar-marbled left arm to ‘Choly, indicating the lack of a hand, and as he casually resumed the task in his lap, he spoke with incisive softness.

“It belongs to Voire now.”

Hearing Sticks’s easy, rumbling voice come from Ick’s mask startled the chemist. He pulled the fistful of leather sheet to his chin, wary of Sticks’s possessed demeanor. The ghoul’s project was the prosthetic Nostrus hand. Although the mask neutered the ghoul’s capacity for facial expression, he still conveyed his devastation loudly through his tone and posture. He couldn’t bring himself to ask whether his friend was all right, already fully aware of the answer.

He flinched when he noticed Sticks was fully dressed, but he was completely naked, and frantically patted around in the bed prioritizing his Pip-Boy. The device lay unlatched on the nightstand, beside where he’d found his glasses, and he slapped it back on, panicked while the device booted back up. He scrambled through the menus to get to the vitals page, to find nothing significant. It didn’t indicate anything had changed, besides an elevated heart rate. He recalled the Clarimentin, but the Pip-Boy’s clock indicated he’d only taken it a few hours ago at most. His heart raced while he tried to process everything, sitting cross-legged in the bed, his eyes the one part of him unable to sit still. The very idea baffled his nightmare-gnawed brain, that the health metrics did not report filariasis or any blood diseases.

“You’ve got the constitution of wet cardboard, Mindy. Worse than a house of cards in the rain. Coming down from X-Squared knocked you out cold. Be glad you listened and didn’t take the unspun stuff. Won’t do. Won’t do at all.”

“I, I am.” A cracking smile picked at ‘Choly’s mouth, and he picked up the covers again to shield himself. “If I’d have known I were to conduct orgiastic chem frenzies of my enlisted, I’d have begged for this promotion _well_ before the world ended. I wouldn’t have been content with my position as a captain.”

Sticks slouched harder, shoving down any reply he could have given to the sexually loaded comment.

‘Choly stared at the ghoul’s wrist. Nothing had really changed about it. Its topography resembled a contact smear, marbling his scarred ghoulish flesh with that of a human. The more ‘Choly glanced him over, the more he figured the mottling must have extended to more than just the arm, positing a bizarre variant of vitiligo.

“Gonna have to trust you’re gonna get us through this, _Colonel_. We’re gonna need to loot Deenwood after this.” Sticks’s breath snagged, and he stopped what he was doing for a moment. He didn’t look up. “-- _I’m_. Going to need it.”

When their gazes finally crossed, the icy desperation in Sticks’s eyes sobered ‘Choly, and he frowned. Sticks’s head drooped again.

“How bad is the X-Cell-Root comedown going to be?”

“Not important right now... Right now.” Sticks slipped the glove on over the adjusted Nostrus armature and tried it on, unable to look at the stump anymore. “Right now I’m having the ultimate job on me. The General had to know who received my hand fifty years ago, could still be alive. She had to know that by now, that same Furrier would volunteer as Unfolding stock. She had to know that following through with this would strip me of the Furrier I shared that bond with. Five decades of phantom limb spasms, for lacking it. For lacking _him_. ...Still unsure whether she knew for sure beforeh-- before, that you and I knew each other prewar. But now that she does, for certain... It all boils down to her stripping me of the two people in my life I’ve ever let myself be close to.”

“I could tell you were close to him, but...”

‘Choly’s voice burbled silent. He could still taste foot in his mouth, and imagined it could only be his own.

“Ick was my best friend,” the ghoul snapped.

“...And what does that make me...?”

Sticks stood at a start, to yell, only for his voice to crack into diffusion.

“--A ghost. A fucking buck naked fREAK of a ghost--” Shoulders askew, Sticks steadied himself in embarrassment when ‘Choly shrank against the carved headboard. He nearly apologized, but couldn’t find the reason to. “No. I can’t lack you, too.”

“Pardon the intrusion,” a voice interrupted, with a vague familiarity. They looked to the bedroom doorway to a silhouette with four arms akimbo. Clothed but maskless, ‘Choly figured she was Bones until he noticed two more arms carried a garment. “I was sent to check on our C.O. and I’m taking the opportunity to confirm with him a detail before I proceed.”

As the sprightly woman with wild grey hair approached the bed, he could identify that whatever she had brought had at some point been his officer’s coat. He frowned and pulled the white leather coat toward him. She’d cut a massive long-pile collar from the pelts of an animal with peppered, gradient brown-grey fur. He ran his hands absently through it, captivated by its softness. When his head eventually picked up, his eyes were wet. He croaked, unable to figure the amount of time it must have required. His fingers gripped the fur tight, his jaw in rictus. He glanced to the dressing table on the opposite wall, atop which he saw his orthotics, cane, and a loathsome combination of royal blue and metallic gold. Only then did he notice Sticks had taken the opportunity to duck out with ‘Choly distracted.

“How long was I out?”

“Just an hour now.” She snatched it from him just enough to lay it out more purposefully on the bed. “Though many of us feel it’s more like _already_ an hour. You like the Pelt I picked, yes? This is all that could be salvaged of your uniform. Here, I’ll help you with your laces.”

“I, I don’t--” He stared in alternations between the Vault Suit and the six-armed Furrier scooping up his braces and dumping them in the bed. He couldn’t decide whether to object to her time estimate or to the garment across the room from him. “I didn’t think I brought that--”

“Is it a problem? It’s a Vault Suit, yes? I’ve never seen one myself before. But I’ve heard they’re good protection from the elements. It’s good for you to have brought a change of clothes. It will do.”

He removed the Pip-Boy for the moment, and put on his reinforced gloves, only to absently trace his Bloodbug scar in some distant horror. She coaxed him to pay attention and kneel on the bed faced away from her. He almost asked her not to look at his body, but rebuked the anxiety with the reminder that he’d likely been naked among the whole commune during the ritual. They’d all likely seen him head to toe now. Yet, when he slipped the corset over his head to put his arms through, and her hands wandered beneath it, his chin still tilted up in distress, torn whether to welcome the myriad overstimulation to which Voire had inured him.

“You’re Bones, right? I wasn’t introduced to many of you, and--”

“--I have been, yes, and I suppose I am now,” she replied a little too quickly, over his shoulder. “I might not continue to be for long. I didn’t stop being Bones any more than you stopped being Carey.” She lacked tact or personal space as she gained understanding of how the corsetry needed to be tightened by foremost understanding the form it needed to contour. “Surely, you’ve Unfolded before. You look it. Just as you confirm me, I confirm you. Do you seek a new name? A new face? You are Melancholy now, yes? --Or Mindy? Or _Carey_?”

His voice stuttered and he put his hands on two of hers, trying to ease her out of caressing his chest and sides. Interpreted as an invitation, the gesture only spurred her on more heatedly.

“I, no, Melancholy will do. I. I, ah-- _Bones._ ” His voice cracked through his nose when she pinched a nipple. “Weren’t you just saying we need to get going?”

“No harm in learning more about you as we go.”

Curtly, she pulled back to take visual measure of the eyelets. She traced a finger down both sides of the limp back, then promptly pulled the laces taut in a single fluid tug. She smoothly tied the corset in place, then moved to swing his legs off the bed, and knelt to help him with his socks and ankle braces. Once accomplished, the three-breasted woman patted the inside of his thigh and looked up at him between his knees.

“I wish there were time to know you.” Her dark eyes begged for the ability to stay right where they were. “You’re so feeble, but so... capable. You fascinate me.”

His thighs closed around her face just slightly, and he moaned at just the thought of all those hands not just curious but ravenous for him. He withdrew from the posture sheepishly, and quickly finished dressing himself. _I do, too._ He glanced over to her apologetically, only to notice her smoothing her cheeks where he’d squished them ever just so.

“You’re still... activated, then.”

He toed guiltily into his boots and laced them, then clipped his Pip-Boy back on, for the excuse to stare at the screen rather than her.

“We will be for some time. I’m uncertain what you partook in during the ceremony, but you weren’t... we call it _conditioned_. _Made pliant_. It wasn’t X-Cell-Root, then. A shame. Though you didn’t Unfold like us, you did Unfold _with_ us. We’re blessed to have you included.”

“You say that to all your officers,” he blandished, still recovering from a deep blush.

“You’re our first full officer.” Bones scooped up the coat. He almost expected her to help him into it, if he hadn’t remembered it looked incomplete. She handed him his cane. “Since before, at any rate.”

They got to walking, back southward to the Reservoir House.

“You’re not mad, then, to know who I am?”

“ _Raving and ecstatic!_ ” She grinned, demonstrating she now had far too many teeth. “The Unfolding gathers together pieces of the past, present, and future, and layers it into a single form. It gathers us. It gathers resources. And it gathers time. The ceremony dilates us, makes us ready. But then, after the X-Root, reality shrinks and solidifies into its next iteration. Infinity seems so much more infinite when it’s spaced out as it is.”

 _Geez, where did Angel get off to?_ He watched everyone around them working on their armor and weapons with an abnormal diligence, and noted how manifest the effects of X-Root were. _They’re so quick. Agile. Inspired. Like they’re in effect truly_ posthuman. In some regards, they appeared more restless than motivated.

In looking around to try to at least lay eyes on Angel or Sticks, he also attempted to locate any other of his belongings he had not yet recovered. He saw someone with his harness and guns and dragged Bones along to the Furrier with his things.

“Oh no, no, no. This won’t do,” the old woman wheezed out, fretting over the guns and their ammunition with the nimble toes of legs that replaced arms at her shoulders. She noticed the two approaching her, but didn’t stop her scrutiny. “You need something that can penetrate that Devil armor!”

Bones smiled as the two watched her create shavings with a piece of sheet metal, then hammer and clip the dart-like pieces into uniform sizes, to give them both a sharp end and a fletched end. She bundled them up in a leather pouch and handed them over to him with an exuberant nod.

“Flechettes will shred into flesh easily, but these can additionally puncture metal. They’re inelegant, but they’ll do better than _pencils_!”

“Did you just... hand craft ammunition for my rifle...?”

The woman’s only reply was to chuckle and pat at his hands encouragingly. ‘Choly only unstuck to affix the new pouch to his harness, at Bones’s nudging, and put the harness and belt on over his Vault Suit. He slipped his rifle onto his back, thanked the Furrier, and they resumed their walk.

“One more thing for the moment, Melancholy,” Bones said, once they got to the Reservoir House. “I came to collect you, to ask you. Do tell me your favorite color. Even before I saw you standing here before me in that garb, you struck me as very much a blue person. Please say it’s so.”

He stared at her in a dull stupor a moment, caught between the formation of an answer and her guessing correctly.

“...Yeah. Blue. Ultramarine.” His brow scrunched. “Why?”

“I must finish lining your coat!” She shooed him. “Now get on to speak with the sachem. They’ve awaited you more impatiently than any of us.”


	28. Ряженье (Ch61)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for a nuclear winter solstice.

A tall figure moved about Reese’s dwelling, tending to various materiel, some salvaged, and the rest likely requisitioned from the Deenwood Compound. ‘Choly stepped inside at a caution, rubbing at his shorn neck. He eyed the open space, expecting Reese. His face drooped when the figure faced him. Theirs mirrored his, their mouth open only partly as they eyed him.

‘Choly ineffectually cleared the viscosity in his mouth. Like Bones, Reese had not yet put their mask back on either. He scarce could recognize the Furriers’ leader from his memory of them at the Unfolding, though the vibrant purple and green garments seemed similar to what they’d worn the first time he’d met them. Terrence and Irene’s body now met near full, standard symmetry, save Irene’s extra eye in their left cheek.

“A Vault Dweller, then.” As Reese spoke, ‘Choly noted they had retained their lemniscate dentition. The eight foot tall figure’s lips became a thin line, and they unstuck to pull back their two-tone hair and pace. The smoke had remained to their voice, though now with a neatness to modulation and trachea it had not held prior. “This is where you slept. Are there other officers in your Vault?”

His gaze fell anywhere but on Reese.

“...A JAG Corps lawyer,” he answered, after doing everything he could not to think too hard about the two _enlisted_. “Really, it’s just me now. Is it a problem?”

“It simply explains a great deal about you. Deeper than the surface. Take, for instance, that you first made yourself more recognizable as an officer when we first met, sooner than wear something with distinct protective benefit. Either you valued concealing your involvement with a Vault, or you did truly awaken very recently, and have no concept yet just how valuable a Vault Suit even is.”

“It’s really nothing that deep,” he lied, laughing off being read. He rubbed at his upper arm. “I just had to change because my uniform to ruined at The Unfold--”

Reese guffawed, transfixed with enthusiasm, and turned heel with an intense glare.

“You see why we discard it all so far in advance! Tell me The Unfolding was everything you expected, Colonel.”

Locked up how to even begin to reply, ‘Choly nodded emphatically, eyes wide and obeisant as he looked up at Reese. Every other Furrier had grown more asymmetrical, more arcane, more _everything_ from The Unfolding, but not their sachem--and somehow, that beguiled him more than anything about the whole ordeal. They clapped their two hands together with urgent delight, flashing him back to gravity.

“It warms me, to know this. We must discuss battle strategy. Earlier you sounded like you had a plan. The General will be contributing her service.”

‘Choly shifted between enamorment and frustration.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. I’m getting a little tired of being told what I’m supposed to accomplish only _after_ I’ve been cornered into agreeing to it.”

Reese calmed in the rebuff.

“It’s only right.”

‘Choly detailed his understanding, but he lost track of everything spilling out of him, troubled by his infatuation with Reese prior to The Unfolding. Or rather, its absence--now that Reese looked comparatively normal, the magnetism had faded. A recap of everything Liv had discussed with him came, without him really grasping he’d articulated it. His brow strained. He felt more predatory than usual, how his attraction to Reese could simply _evaporate_ in a matter of hours.

He realized at some point that Reese and he had both spoken, but he retained nothing from the exchange. The dialogue waxed looping and incoherent in places, for both of them even, perhaps. At one point, he could have sworn Reese went on that the memories of the Rust Devil tributes had dispersed throughout the Furriers, and that they’d gained gained some tactical advantage in this way. He glanced down at his Pip-Boy, wondering with a petulant absence if he could attribute this brain fog as a side effect of the X-Cell-Squared wearing off. The vitals menu either yielded cryptic results, or his faculties had waned that thin.

Fidgeting idly, he noticed the device had saved a draft. He nodded to himself. It comforted him a bit, that he didn’t have to open it, to know what it was. He’d have to survive the rush, if not just to edit the draft into some enjoyable, viscously detailed reading.

Bones stood again in the doorway, politely waiting her turn to speak as usual. It took some time for the two of them to wave her in, and she smiled to them graciously. Reese snorted and shooed at ‘Choly with the stern protectiveness of a sibling-turned-parent.

“We pick our masks fresh again after The Unfolding,” Reese reminded as Bones took one of ‘Choly’s arms in two of hers. “Be certain to confirm yourself before we leave, Colonel. Thirty minutes, like you said. Not a minute more.”

He could do little more than nod. His heart swapped places with some other organ as the Mistress of Ceremonies dragged him along. It had been one thing, for the Furriers to have outsmarted the Devils with pit and wire traps, on their own property. It would be another entirely, for them to outpace the raiders on the Devils’ terrain. The whole thing felt like a test he hadn’t studied for.

Between Reese’s house and the Reservoir House, he noticed Angel milling idly, transparent in its proximity but also in a deliberateness to keep its distance. He’d have to apologize after Bones had finished with him.

Bones held out the coat for him to inspect. He reached out to run a cautious, gloved hand along the cobalt ultramarine jacquard brocade, jaw slack in distant admiration. It scarcely anymore resembled the white colonel’s coat he’d worn into Voire, between the lining and the turned long-pile peppered fur collar. He pulled back, to remove his rifle and Pip-Boy just long enough for him to slip it on. She gleefully helped him into it, delighting in his features as she fluffed at the collar.

 _Blood-borne diseases._ He clipped his Pip-Boy back on and frowned meaninglessly to himself. The Vault Suit had synced to the Pip-Boy for more comprehensive physiological diagnostics. He swallowed hard to shove down the dread of inevitability. On the one hand, it had told him at the gold course that he had not contracted anything from the Bloodbug stab; but on the other, it had attempted to speculate just about everything else. He gave the device a plaintive touch. _Please, never tell me that I fucked up trusting Liv_.

His chin bobbled down into the fur, trying to connect their lines of sight while also looking over his glasses.

“Why... why was it necessary to redo the lining before we rush the Devils?”

“The officer’s martial coat had good leather to work from.” She smoothed down his lapels, and briefly broke their gaze to intimately trace at the twin Pharm Corps insignias she’d already pinned in place for him. “Leather has always been the best protection from the postwar elements anyone could hope for. We’ve named ourselves the Furriers, because we learned to survive radiation thanks to tanning and fiber craft. It’s unfortunate that we only had the one source of human leather at the moment’s notice, as it’s the zenith of rad resistance when tanned properly. But leather’s only effective against energy, not mass. I replaced the lining with something not just formidable against the rest, but,” she smiled sweetly to herself, “beautifully fitting of you. I hope the choice of pattern pleases you. It’s the only fabric I had on hand in the right color for you.”

He stood silent, simply running his gloves over the fur time and again. The coat now reminded him of a shuba. _Except this one will protect me from the_ nuclear _winter_. The floral jacquard brocade reminded him of Hubflower, the way the vaguely iridescent pattern picked up both lavenders and ultramarines. He sniffed, locked up between that juvenile nostalgia again and the fidelity the garment now carried.

“Hub suits me more than I can say. Thank you, Bones.”

He put a hand to her cheek, and watched her watching him. Their lips closed in on one another’s.

A Furrier with a black cat mask and long stringy dark hair burst into the Reservoir House, donning a mix of oiled leather and military twill. Despite still carrying the silhouette of having a head on his shoulders, his arms sprouted from his hips. He pointed at ‘Choly, who jerked back like he’d been caught.

“Sticks _said_ you’d be here. We should’ve left for the rush hours ago! Why should we listen to you! Can’t even handle your root!”

“Felix!” Bones hissed. “Watch your tongue. It was his first time!”

“And it’ll be the Devils’ first time, too. This isn’t Sanctuary! You don’t think--”

“ _\--Don’t you THINK_ ,” Angel entered at a roar behind him, “that you ought to show your commanding officer a little more respect!”

“Sanctuary.” The word fell from ‘Choly like bile. He knew the man meant it as a name, not an idea. “I don’t think _what_?”

Felix had to think twice before he spoke again, his head whipping around to account time and again for the number of people now in the workshop.

“Sir, with all due respect--and there’s so little. You don’t think it’s going to be a cake walk, do you? Be part of some _elite group_ where you get to shelter yourself from the chaos whenever it’s convenient for you? This may still look loosely like a military outfit, but understand this, and understand it well: We stand _with_ you, not _beneath_ you. Not for a second. Not with who you are.”

A look gnarled ‘Choly’s face, like he’d mistakenly bitten into something rotten. His head barely would give him the words to put in his mouth.

“Excuse me?” His face righted just enough to form a response. “Where was this vitriol and doubt before The Unfolding?”

“Your little fainting spell just proved how frail you are. Whatever being in that hole in the ground did to you, you aren’t fit for command anymore. If you can’t handle your Root, you don’t have the Endurance to stay afloat in a fight.”

“I’m the one to make that measure,” Angel insisted. “Not. You.”

It put itself between the Furrier and ‘Choly. ‘Choly nearly squeaked in resignation that Felix was right, of course he had the constitution of... _wet cardboard_ , wasn’t it? Felix took a hostile step forward, and Angel squared up, drawing its lasers.

“Go ahead and hide behind your _baby blue cotillion bot_ , Colonel Carey. At the end of the day, we all report back to Reese, not your-- you.”

Bones glared at him, fists clenched.

“Felix, save this for the Devils.”

“ _He’s_ sure a demon I could put to rest,” Felix muttered, showing himself out.

‘Choly wheezed once he felt safer.

“What was all that about. Angel, thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“I’m sure you could’ve handled it just fine without me,” the Mister Handy started. He couldn’t discern from its tone whether Angel had intended it as a jab.

“Well I’m certainly glad that you swooped in after him,” Bones disagreed. “Between you and me, we must keep Melancholy in one piece. Am I right, D.I. Angel?”

“I didn’t know you brought the Vault Suit,” he appreciated, sheepish.

“Well, I couldn’t very well have let you get off without a change of clothes, now, could I? What sort of Automatron would I be!”

“You really do all you can to provide for me. You even know what I need without me voicing it.” ‘Choly lost his fingers in the fur again, his eyes distant. “Food, safety, security.” His wet eyes picked up, feeling a fleeting clarity. “Security. You’re home, moy Angel. ...Ty dom.”

“Oh, Sir... I turned you loose to the Furriers because I trusted Mister Hawthorne’s statement that X-Root and X-Squared are incompatible. Worst case scenario, you got a scare. Best case scenario, you enjoyed yourself. Sir... Sir, I can’t tell if you trust me anymore, to put your best interests in priority. And you _must_ , if we plan to survive this full assault.”

“Of course I trust you. The... worry’s been whether you trusted _me_. I have to be honest with you, Angel. I’ve... I’ve been scared to navigate our arrangement, so I’ve avoided it altogether. Even when I thought chems might help.” His pale face shimmered as his breathing got heavier, and his ears stuffed up the harder he focused on keeping his train of thought in utter earnest. “Day’s already been hell, even before the X-Squared wore off too fast. I don’t think I can get through this day without chems, Angel. I feel the only way we’re getting through this is with a fistful of Stimpaks and Calmex.”

“You and I have an agreement, Mister Carey. You’re asking me to administer chems, and you’re asking me politely, at that. You replaced my worn out Nanny attachments with those in better condition. Let’s try them out, shall we?”

“I. Yes, please.” He stared at it, fumbling and dumbstruck that the understood one another so immediately. “Perhaps, just a dose of Med-X for now. If you could. _Please_.”

He pulled his left arm from its sleeve, and rolled up the Vault Suit just enough to bare his antecubital fold to the robot. It complied with delicate precision and without hesitation. Once he’d smoothed his garment back down, he leaned his forehead against Angel’s chassis, and it held a tendril against his back.

“Where do you suppose Sticks has gotten off to?”

“He’s doing a once-over on the Riverhawk before we head out, Sir. I’ll take you to him, if you must. We’re wasting daylight, the longer we dally so.”

‘Choly nodded. He looked to Bones.

“You’re the two piloting machines.” She urged them on with a certain distance in her eyes, as though it all made sense.

He walked up to her, and held one of her shoulders. Then, he pressed his lips to hers. Her lurid intensity drew him in with all six arms as she pressed back, the two of them coaxed rather than repulsed by the effect on her activated flesh.

“We’re going to get through this in one piece,” ‘Choly told her with a crooked smile.

“Out of many, one,” she agreed, with an even more crooked smile.

‘Choly took up the Syringer rifle and attempted to mount Angel. He struggled to hoist himself up steady on the foot pegs, but managed much better once he wrapped a fist in the juryrigged chain-belt reins and leaned over the top of the Mister Handy. Once it had tared to his weight, it spirited him out of the workshop, around the Christian Hill Reservoir, and to Ick’s house.

“Oh, good.” Sticks only looked up long enough to confirm he’d heard and seen right. “You’re done speaking with Reese. And playing dress-up, apparently. --Don’t... take that as ignorance. I know Bones was played your quartermaster.”

‘Choly didn’t feel confident in his ability to get back up a second time, so he stayed mounted atop Angel. He shoved down a frown as the heaviness of the painkiller hit.

“Are you going to be all right, Jacob?”

“Can’t take the Ick outta Sticks.” An exhaustive silence transpired while Sticks stuck his head back in the passenger side window, fishing through things he and Felix had loaded up. “It’s good you’re up there. Should’ve stayed atop Angel. You’d have been safe up there.”

“Doesn’t matter what I should’ve done. Does it?” He murmured to himself in a vague lyric, trying to find the words. “No, it does matter. Of course it does. But we can’t stand around sorting out what that means. We have war ahead.”

“Best thing I’ve heard all day!” Felix hollered from the driver’s seat, slapping the wheel. “Guns blazing!”

“Straight shot down to Back Central,” Sticks agreed, hoisting himself up into the back of the truck, where his mounted Flamer awaited him. As he stood in place, he glanced to ‘Choly. “You, leading the charge, and us, heading up the back... It works out, to have had the extra ninety minutes before heading out. We’re more together than we would’ve been without it.”

“I’m glad to be favorable.”

Felix turned the engine over, and they made their way out to the entry point of Voire. Any Furriers who had not yet taken up a mask chose theirs from a pile, then joined their neighbors standing ready for their commanding officer. ‘Choly remembered that Reese had urged him to confirm himself as well, but he didn’t feel right taking one of their masks. He reached into Angel’s storage, and produced his burlap sack hood. It had always hidden his identity, but masks provided the Furriers theirs. With this freakish crew marching through Lowell clad in masks and bright colors, he couldn’t help but imagine them as mummers. What dragon might they slay today?

“Ghost,” he murmured, smoothing it down under his coat collar. “Burlap. Sack. Ghost.”

‘Choly waved them all on, to follow out of Voire. As Angel flew backwards, he watched the Riverhawk get further away from him. He resigned to requesting the aforementioned Calmex and Stimpak, which Angel administered to his throat. He stood resolute, riding standing-saddle. The sky darkened to the East behind them. They brought the night.

Night was longest in the winter. He couldn’t help but feel more the part of Kara-chun, than ‘Choly-ada. And it tickled an important part of him.

His mind played Sticks’s voice as he again faced the front.

_You’re just a ghost, Mindy. Well, hell’s full ‘cause the Devils are all here. And they’re going to have to deal with us._


	29. Щeдрик (Ch62)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ex marks the spot.
> 
> TWs: Injury and gore, eye trauma, needle projectiles, drug use, fatalities, body horror, explosions, joint gore, lethal scissoring.

Melancholy couldn’t remember when his day had actually begun. So much had happened already. He’d had several of those this month, it seemed. The thought of ‘the longest night’ stuck with him as they passed Southwest through the Lowell Historical Park. Koliada. _Korochun_. Summer or winter solstice could both just as easily be upon them. The ritual bathing, the satyriadic dance, of the Unfolding...

His Pip-Boy indicated it was barely still September.

His head was starting to pound.

“Can I... have Berry?” He pressed his luck. “To think straight.”

“Based on my documentation, and based on what you’ve already taken, potential side effects of your taking a Berry Mentat are nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. You’re not attempting the trifecta, now, are you, Sir?”

His face slacked beneath the burlap. Had the Handy really been documenting his Lexington bender? The DIA surveillance habits persisted.

“...Pozhaluysta?” He hadn’t meant to whine.

“Oh, all right. But no more!” It produced the lozenge for him, and presented it with caution. “For the rest of the night. And I mean it.”

He chewed it up rather than sucking on it, with a viscous murmur of gratitude.

Was it time for Mokosh? For Svarog? Tausen’s time was passing as Chernobog approached on foot... No, Equinox may have only just passed, but he could feel the charnel pull ahead. As his mental faculties sharpened, lyric trickled out of him. He couldn’t place what made sense anymore.

“Vyydy, vyydy, hospodaryu... Podyvysya, na kosharu...”

Koledari? _‘Choly_ -dari? Exhaustion robbed him of tears, so he laughed instead. He could be the swallow, welcoming prosperity in the wake of all this carnage, desperate and futile against a hologram of his faltering lucidity.

He glanced around at his enlisted. Had Berries always lit up the smoky, stygian magenta auras of the living, or was this something wholly new? His head pounded even harder than before. He definitely didn’t remember experiencing this during his Deenwood career.

The Voire Unit passed through the monolithic steles of Kerouac Park, and fire erupted before them. The Furriers spread out, many taking to the channels to cross into Back Central by water, demonstrating strong swimming skill in the twilight. The cars on the bridge into Back Central seemed less so scattered by the entropic chaos of two centuries abandoned, and more so strategically placed to force winding travel. Angel skirted over the crashing spray of multiple Molotovs with a heave, and glided down across the bridge. Once ‘Choly and Angel had crossed, an explosion rang behind them. Angel swiveled around so ‘Choly could see: the volatile overripe nuclear engine of a Chryslus had exploded from the flames. The car had taken out an entire section of the bridge.

The Riverhawk hadn’t made it more than a few dozen yards across. He could see the black cat slapping the steering wheel, and presumably cursing up a storm. The mummy standing in the cargo bed made eye contact with the burlap ghost, before the Pick-R-Up’s driver backed up to find another way in.

‘Choly sagged, truly separated for the moment, and finally noticing it.

Until he would next see his mummy, he focused instead on leading his mummers in his impassioned little _kolyadka_.

The way it just built up inside him, swelled, and poured out, it was like polishing tarnish off something long discarded inside himself. It came a little too loudly, and a little too strongly. Angel likely interpreted his surge of enthusiasm as a byproduct of the Calmex, the Mentat, or perhaps the combination. They both in their own ways had the effect of nettling his sense of social constructs. It would have concerned him, that Angel wasn’t getting onto him for letting his tongue run as it liked--but in such a state, to him expression was expression, and words were words. The anxiety typical of conforming out of a long-outdated survival habit had distilled into a different survival sense entirely.

He enterprised on the Berries’ unexpected illumination, graced by a moment where the grey matter fog receded a ways. He steadied the Syringer to take aim at three Rust Devils he could make out at a somewhat close range. Each pneumatic plunk of his darts punctuated his tune, unstifled by his focus.

“ _Pryletila--_!”

“ _Lastivochka--_!”

“ _Stala sobi shchebataty--”_

 _Aim for space between joints_. He reloaded with more flechettes, eyeing the sparks he’d drawn out of the Devils’ robotic armor from his first shots. _No. Made from robots. Aim for electronic parts_.

“ _Hospodarya_ \--!”

“ _Vyklykaty_ \--!”

The next clip of flechettes penetrated armor. He whistled low, and patted the air canister of his rifle.

Angel unloaded a length of its submachine clip without warning. ‘Choly could only hear ringing for some time, left to rely on his sight, and his touch-- _Oh, god_. He glared at his grip on the reins, nearly dropping the Syringer. When had his wrist turned that way? Never mind the thumb and elbow... He’d twisted up inside his wrist brace and reinforced glove, just from wielding the reins and steadying his aim at the same time. _Had_ he been activated? He couldn’t be seeing this all wrong, the claret smoke whipping around him just like all the rest. He didn’t right his grip; Calmex accounted for what little steadiness he sustained. And he smiled inside himself, inside his burlap sack mask, as they came up on the five story Federal-style building once known as the Robert House Charter School.

“Vyydy vyydy... Hospodaryu... Pdoyvysya na kosharu, tam ovechky pokotylys, s yahnychyky narodylys--!”

He had to focus on drawing them from the woodworks... Couldn’t stay still. The carol didn’t only boost his morale. It would put all crosshairs squarely on him, and away from his enlisted, so they could disperse and lay their wire traps. All around him, he could see them working diligently. Barbed tripwires and snares. He smiled broadly through his song.

The Devils were the chaff, all the blessings these ‘Choly-dari could savor. He could hear some of the Furriers humming along. Though they knew his tune, English or otherwise, they mostly no longer knew the words. Those he could hear scripted their tune in affirmation of what they owed this iteration of their Unfolding, what they welcomed into the commune from these wretches.

'Choly doubled over from riding standing saddle, and crumpled atop Angel, who spirited him forward rather than away. Blinking through tears, he couldn’t see smoky silhouettes from the direction of the assault. The pummeling had definitely broken a rib through his orthotic corset.

Golf equipment. Of course. The Devils had to have looted the fairway and not just the clubhouse. They’d either gutted the Golf Green Protectrons, or stolen them in tact. And now, one of their favored forms of ammunition came as high velocity golf balls.

Another volley hailed down on him and Angel, and he forced himself to stand again trying to dodge as much as he could. Two balls got him in the left elbow and knee with a splintering crunch. Between his chem-enhanced reflexes and pain-obliviousness, he recovered one-handed and laughed it off through a slur of saliva.

Then a Rust Devil swept his other leg with a golf club, and he spilled. Hitting the concrete stifled his scream, unable to draw breath.

He patted around for his Syringer on the unlit broken street. The sound of heavy metal-clad footsteps approached him, and he could hear hoarse chuckling echoing inside the Eyebot helmet. The Devil choked up on the club and whisked it about, approaching to square up to ‘Choly’s head much like one would tee up. He couldn’t reach his rifle. He went for the Nagant at his hip instead. The Devil took a Pax Syringe to the eye, through the grate covering the front of the helmet, and keeled backwards with a heavy metallic thud.

It felt strange to the burlap ghost, to observe the weight of Mister Handy shells, when ported by something not designed to wear them.

The ghost and the Devil lay there sprawled on the street. Having focused on his Syringer rifle leading up to the battle, he couldn’t have guessed what kind of ammunition he’d last loaded into the Nagant. Such a game of chance, it was up to fate to dictate what ailment this modified revolver would dole. He could set the very Tryasovitsy into the world from the muzzle of this raider-forged device.

Angel broke away from its own fight eventually. It returned to its owner’s side to finish his job with its saw attachment. The Eyebot shell rolled away without the body attached.

“So good of you to save a little of your fight for me, too, Sir!” it praised.

‘Choly holstered the Nagant and grabbed the Devil’s club. He tried to stand, still heaving.

“You... need to work on your...” When he couldn’t put both hands on the club to do one better, he kicked at the head. “-- _sWING_.”

Angel retrieved his Syringer for him. Though he appreciated it returned to him, he wouldn’t make much use of it with a broken, multiply-dislocated arm. It helped him sling it onto his back. He nearly questioned whether his joints had jumbled up how he believed they did, or if the chems had his sensory input more scrambled than usual. Before he could flip his Pip-Boy to the vitals menu, Angel scooped him up bridal style in two tendrils and sped off at maximum speed across the South Common.

He barely processed Sticks had called out a prearranged warning cry: _Angel, descending!_

The flare popped in the sky. He gaped at the charter school, but noticed the Pip-Boy chirp. It had just freshly finished recalibrating to being worn alongside the Vault Suit again. He glanced to it, but didn’t have the spit to swallow. It was even worse on the inside than he could tell from the outside.

Three shells shrieked down. Two shattered windows on their way inside the charter school, while the third made a droning crater in the street. ‘Choly tried to observe the chaos of the Robert House Charter as it sped off into the distance behind them, but the Rad-I-Canned did not and would not affect the robots.

The Assaultrons and Protectrons made chase, only to slam face-down as they each came to the juncture between Thorndike and the Lowell Connector. The tripwires hadn’t just been set for the Devils. One Assaultron noticed the wire in time, and jumped. It lunged forward to connect a spray of flames from its arm attachment. ‘Choly tucked his head into his fur collar as best he could. The next thing he knew, he wasn’t on fire anymore. Angel’s incendiary laser disintegrated wiring throughout the Assaultron, rendering it inert to the street. His energy resistant coat had beaded off the accelerant.

Then the Eyebots and Mister Handies caught up. Or, at least they had been Mister Handies once. ‘Choly could feel Angel shudder in recognition of the scraps which remained of its brass chassis-stripped kindred, little more than flame thrusters welded with parts from unidentifiable equipment, rebar, and drill-like blades. A spray of lasers sliced off one of Angel’s ocular lenses, but it pressed onward still.

“ _It’s too late, Olivia!_ ” the Eyebots jeered, resounding like megaphones in the streets. “ _Troy has fallen!_ ”

And then, they noticed that the Rust Devils from the Robert House Charter had caught up to them as well. Except they were naked... and shaped all wrong. ‘Choly couldn’t help but gasp in grief in the recognition the Rad-I-Canned hadn’t just fused together Furrier with Devil, but Devil with Devil. Despite their uncertain number of limbs and heads, and awkward joint angles, they still galloped after him with uncanny speed and grace. One of the faces still wore a skeleton mask. He started crying, and couldn’t explain why.

 _Troy?_ he found himself wondering in confusion. _This is... this is Lowell_...

“My sensors suggest you are very badly injured, Mister Carey. Please let me administer a Stimpak.”

“Nn-- no. Med-X. Second Med... X. Can’t Stimpak without setting-- bones.” His eyes glazed over amid shallow breaths. “Bones.”

“I believe I can safely administer one additional Med-X,” it hesitated, but complied. It couldn’t get at him to inject the painkiller, especially not since it had kept its Gutsy tendril free carrying its owner. So it handed it to him, and he injected it himself, into his left shoulder, through the Vault Suit, with his still partially-mangled right hand. “You’re certainly pushing our terms of agreement tonight, Sir. If this weren’t medically necessary, I shall go on record that I _would_ be refusing you.”

“Noted. But we both need to worry more about staying in one piece--!”

With a shriek of rubber, the Riverhawk fishtailed between the Unfolded Devils and their robots, and the ghost and his chariot. Sticks unloaded a wave of fire to stave back the onslaught. The Devils’ Sentry Bot swerved into view from the same direction the Pick-R-Up truck had gotten onto the Lowell Connector, and slammed into the front of the truck. The dual Fusion Cores of the glorified tank robot melted down and ruptured in a nuclear blast that sent dozens flying.

‘Choly could do nothing but look on in dread when the Riverhawk burst into a second wave of flames, likely from the Flamer tank igniting as well.

As they came up on the Deenwood Compound, ‘Choly set his eyes forward, and at first believed a hallucination had set itself upon the place. His broken arm jostled around as they throttled off the Connector and under the broken remnants of the Route 3 overpass. The entire base looked at first as though the underworldly magenta smoke of the Berries had lit it up, but the nearer they drew, the more hopeless he felt.

A flare had been fired directly onto the base, signaling the detonation of Rad-I-Canned shells. A haze of Klutz and X-Cell-Root hugged the ground. He frowned when laser fire chased close behind them again.

“Fuck-me-in-my-mouth, why can’t I fire back at them!” He nearly had whiplash, jerking between the robots closing in behind them, and the base gates coming up in front of them. He stuttered in panic. “--Wait! Angel I don’t have my bars. My bars. _I DON’T_ \--”

“Have some faith in me, Sir!” the Handy laughed, doing its best to sprint full speed, ignoring the fallen checkpoints. “What kind of Handy would I be!”

The gates had been slammed down, and robotic carnage lay strewn about. Sirens echoed in awful off-key alternations. ‘Choly didn’t know whether to worry more about the base’s robots potentially not recognizing him as an ally, or about what kind of firepower the Devils had mustered to manage such destruction. Even with the neurological boost of the Berry Mentat still barely flickering, he couldn’t calculate just how many of the base’s robots had fallen already.

Then again, the Rust Devils had discarded their armor amongst the fallen robots, and telling it all apart couldn’t have been more difficult by spotlight.

The carnage interested the Devils more than Angel and ‘Choly did, and the two passed through unhindered while the Unfolded figures scavenged giddily. The Rad-I-Canned seemed to have dissipated enough as to not cause much trouble, though the droning whine resonating throughout Deenwood nettled something deep inside ‘Choly which got him to wriggling. Angel held him tighter to keep him from pulling off his hood or coat, but didn’t keep him from unfastening the collar of his Vault Suit.

“Where’s General Francis?” ‘Choly asked Angel, his eyes scanning everywhere, even the rooftops. “General Francis? Where!?”

“The Research Development Wing, is what I’m hearing from what remains of the Gutsies.”

If ‘Choly could deflate more in the moment, he would have.

As they came up on the R & D building, it became clear that the Devils had planned this all along. They had waited until the Furriers exhausted all their numbers in Back Central, so that they could enterprise on the obstruction to infiltrate the base with significantly better odds. It had been almost too easy to get away from the school, all things considered. They had to have stationed just enough Devils at the charter school to look the part of occupation, and sent the rest upon Deenwood.

But how could they have known the Furriers had planned to sweep the charter school first?

The flare. Maybe Sticks _had_ survived the crash. In a twisted logic, the Devils had been corralled onto base, so it stood to reason to signal the shells be fired into the greatest concentration of raiders. If they knew what that stuff did, they wouldn’t have fired it themselves. Would they?

His brain-spark fizzled out, and the glowing Berry aura-smoke faded. He encountered a Furrier-Devil who’d clearly Unfolded all three times that day. Unable to process exactly where its faces smeared across its form, he screamed.

The pain of broken ribs knocked the breath right out of him again, in his effort to voice his distress.

Angel and ‘Choly followed the sounds of metal shredding and screams down the corridors to Wing II. The Handy entered open double doors at a caution. A Rust Devil exited her Power Armor, then seized what she’d held in its grip to hold out toward Olivia. The General heaved in hysterics. ‘Choly’s hand went to his mouth when he identified a headless Assaultron body laying inert at the Power Armor’s feet.

The Devils’ leader pulled a few wires in Helen’s head and fired off the Assaultron’s ocular laser with a sadistic lack of precision, incinerating a terminal behind Olivia rather than hitting her. The droning whine of the Rad-I-Canned shells had them both disrobing. She fired again, strafing the side of Olivia’s face.

“To think this is all it took to get you to show some skin,” the sixty-some woman sneered. She ripped off her road goggles one-handed, and in kind peeled away her leathers. Scars and tattoos covered her entire body. “Now there’s nothing standing between you and me.”

The ghoulish woman rose. With tears streaming down her face, she cupped her hands to her mouth. An inhaler dropped to the floor, and the rest of her clothes came off. Broken determination lit up her dark eyes, and she threw herself at the raider.

“Laverne, you’ve never once understood what you’ve been begging for.” She glared at her, to guarantee her once-lover knew their flesh had already begun to tangle. “Let’s hope I exceed your expectations.”

'Choly couldn’t not look on as the pair slurred together in a kiss and fell to the floor in a paroxysm of dialectical melting flesh.

Once it became difficult to tell where Olivia ended and Laverne began, Angel dropped ‘Choly to the floor and vanished. He seethed, having landed on his broken arm. He ripped off his burlap hood as soon as he could muster the will. He hobbled to the first office chair he could find. He could barely see straight through the pain, let alone summon the breath or volume to cry out for Angel.

The sirens changed over to a different set of alternations.

The loudspeakers bleated in a stern masculine voice:

“THIS UNITED STATES MILITARY BASE HAS BEEN COMPROMISED. NO SURVIVING ORDER OF COMMAND REMAINING. THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE AGENCY DISALLOWS THIS PROPERTY TO FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS. SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE HAS BEEN INITIATED! _SELF-DESTRUCT HAS BEEN INITIATED!_ YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES TO SURVIVE.”

Trembling, ‘Choly stared again at the writhing mass in the floor, which no longer bore any humanoid likeness. His soul left him.

“Fuck.”


	30. Indivisible (Ch63)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Find X, knowing *why*.
> 
> TWs: Human experimentation talk, triage-flavored gore, various stages of undress.

‘Choly’s brains scrambled in the moment. Everything in the past few minutes had transpired in a smudge. Was he truly alone on base now with a ton of severely chem-mangled raiders? No Olivia? No leader of the Rust Devils? No Sticks? Not even a robot left standing?

Not a robot. He failed to stifle crying at the thought he didn’t even have Angel by his side.

But he couldn’t just sit there. If he couldn’t move fast enough to escape before the base self-destructed, he could find a way to disarm it. With a mental wheeze, he resigned to no other choice but to try. Maybe he could convince the base he was the General now. Maybe, just long enough to matter.

Frantic to locate a terminal, he scooted across the floor one-legged in the caster-wheeled office chair. The nearest was mounted in the wall beside the doors to Wing II. He checked that the decryption holotape was still in his Pip-Boy, but couldn’t make sense which of two key-prong ports to connect to. There was a chance each only did something specific, but they weren’t labeled. He didn’t remember terminals ever really having _two_.

He hemmed trying to guess which one was right, struggling to keep even a firm grip on the key-prong with the hand of his broken arm. A hand came up from behind him and grabbed his left wrist until he let go of the key-prong in a reflexive wince. The woman shoved him aside by a few feet, and he barely kept from toppling out of the chair. With a Pip-Boy on each arm, she unfurled both key-prongs and plugged them into the terminal simultaneously.

After having grown accustomed to her ghoulification, it took some time before he could grasp he was staring at Olivia Francis, standing before him completely human again, wearing the raider’s leather jacket and nothing else, navigating the SCRAM protocols with effortless intensity. She exuded an _everything-ness_ that he couldn’t quantify, a SPECIAL quality which captivated and terrified in the same measure.

The sirens powered down. She unplugged with a huff, and walked back over to the various scraps of clothes in the floor in the hopes a pair of pants survived. Fed up boredom laced her rich voice.

“Not that I think you could right now, Carey, but don’t move.”

 _She’s not dead. She_ looks _human again._ He fidgeted dumbly with the hem of his coat. _Hm._ His thumb smeared away blood. _It didn’t soak in. Comes right off._ He tried to do the same of the leg of his Vault Suit, but it didn’t budge.

He frowned.

Eventually he glanced up.

“That voice... That was her Eyebots out there...” He pointed at the Power Armor, for lack of a raider leader to reference.

“I really made a stellar choice, to put you in charge of my enlisted today, didn’t I?” She patted him on the shoulder, exhaustion on her heavy lids. She dropped an Addictol in his lap, with the insistence in her posture that he use it. “Sharp as a marble. Sober the fuck up, soldier.”

“Biometrics recalibrated for: General Olivia Francis,” the terminal announced. “Welcome back, General.”

“Couldn’t have you staging a coup, now, could we?” she deadpanned.

Drawing in the lungful of medication stung less for its effect and more for the strain on his broken ribs.

“I swear I don’t want to be General--” he stuttered, hasty to exhale the salty medication just to get the words out. His head spun, the faster he tried to talk. “I only took your place while you were--”

“--You took me for dead, but I appreciate you lying through your teeth. Now as for your accomplice...” She motioned to Angel returning, dragging a half-naked Sticks. “Ugh.” With displeasure, she input a few commands into her Pip-Boy. “I must get that Klutz pitch disabled before you men get any more indecent.”

“Angel! Oh thank god. Why--”

“--I couldn’t leave Mister Hawthorne unattended on premises, Colonel Carey!” it replied a little too spryly.

It demonstrated the enthusiasm of following orders. ‘Choly swallowed. Had Olivia always had the ability to hack and control Angel? At least while it operated on base? What timing, that the command had kicked in right when Angel would have opened fire on the Rust Devils’ leader.

“I’m disappointed in you, Hawthorne. Not surprised, but certainly disappointed. I expected you to have your fingers in more than one pot, but you had your mitts on everybody’s business.” She didn’t even bother with the body language to care about the captive ghoul, while she scrounged for whiskey in one of the desks. She drank directly from the bottle.

Angel tightened its grip on Sticks when he wouldn’t stop wriggling. He tried to slip out of his Nostrus glove to get a limb free, but Angel caught onto the attempt and changed its grip on him.

“And I mean _everybody’s_. Keep your enemies closer, and all that. Isn’t that right?You want to lose that other hand, too, don’t you? You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t share this one, gentlemen.”

Angel pulled Sticks closer to ‘Choly so it could provide triage. He had to right the dislocations in his right hand and wrist first. From there he did his best to reset joints and line up bone in his left elbow, powering through the searing pain of actually having to go by feel. Angel administered a Stimpak directly into it.

Sticks squinted at her in a stupor, visibly agitated ‘Choly wasn’t helping him get loose.

“You... aren’t a ghoul.”

“Oh, _two_ marbles!” she exclaimed, clapping distastefully. Her sarcasm slowly boiled into a snarl. “It’s shaping up to be a regular game of it. And to think I’d lost ‘em all. All right, so I haven’t been completely honest about the state of things around here. There’s certain things that operate like a lady’s age and weight. You just don’t ask about it! But you two have had your secrets, too. Let’s lay out some honesty. So tell me, Sticks. How far out did you plan this whole con? Weeks? Months? Hmm? Are you the one who coaxed Laverne back up here a goddamn year ago!?”

‘Choly looked between her and Sticks as she waved between the two of them. He shook his head of the suggestion of collusion.

“Oh, don’t look so wild, Carey. I know he didn’t give a rat’s ass if I made it out of this SNAFU alive, as long as he made sure _you_ did. It’s why he fired the fucking flare directly onto base.”

“The Devils were already on base,” Sticks reasoned, sweating. “They were already rounded up. Like fish in a barrel, Gen.”

She sat on the desk, and took another belt of whiskey before capping it and mellowing into a bitter, mocking monologue.

“So it was, so it was. Let me guess how the rest of it went. You cut a deal with every single party at the table, and saw your opportunity to get every reward you’d invested in. Instead of walking away with one prize, you could have it all. Laverne promised to restore the Pip-Boy functions in your hand if you helped her infiltrate Deenwood. I promised you more chem stock if you got the Furriers to agree to play sheepdog for me. The Furriers promised to give you your hand back, after what happened in 2124. Well, that doesn’t seem to have panned out. And Carey... Carey, you promised to play kitchen chemist for him if either of you managed to net any of Deenwood’s classified chemistry data, didn’t you?”

‘Choly couldn’t argue, bright red ear to ear. Angel urged him instead to focus on mending his leg. For a moment, his mortification superseded the pain of realigning the snapped head of his split tibia under his kneecap. Angel’s last Stimpak only helped dull the sensation enough to keep him from yelling.

“The toast we did before you left this morning. I had to feel out how well Sticks had you under his thumb. I knew he’d assume a cocktail from me would have some lingering benefits, so I ‘garnished’ each of them. Not only did he drink yours, he drank his, too. He wanted you to think he saved you from getting poisoned, deranged, or feeble--but what he really wanted was a guarantee, from doubled effects, that he could bend you into the pretzel of his whims. It might’ve caught him off guard that I’d added Magnetizer rather than Day Tripper, but it suited him all the better in playing you today. And the whole dance certainly got your tongue running on exactly everything he’d already fed you, that you’d assumed was point blank fact.” She looked to Sticks again, far more exhausted with him than the chemist. “You were tired of having to deal with me, every time you needed more premium chems to push. And you didn’t want to risk Laverne offing you after she got what she wanted. Really, I should’ve known you’d already warned the Devils about Rad-I-Canned when they waited so long to stage their full attack on Deenwood. But they didn’t expect you to be the smoking flare gun, did they?”

She laughed, trying not to cry. With a snivel she got up and stooped to retrieve the six-ampuole hexagonal inhaler.

“And you didn’t expect me to use X-Seed to rub out my ex when she broke my wife in half. She sure as fuck didn’t!”

“Then the Devils didn’t just want Deenwood’s robots,” ‘Choly uttered. “Their leader... wanted you...?”

She tossed down the empty inhaler to be refilled at a later point, and started pacing.

“The three of us. She, Helen, and I. We had chemistry. But she got to where she hated me, for everything I wasn’t and couldn’t be. She resented Helen even more. --God, if I can’t restore her. I don’t know what I’ll do. She’s been with me so long.” She shuffled over to Sticks, and grabbed him by the jaw. “If I can’t, her head rests squarely on you. Did you calculate for that, _entrepreneur_?”

“I’m not the ass who ripped off her head with power armor,” the ghoul snapped, starting to shake. “Technically speaking, that’d be your doing. Wouldn’t it.”

“You’re not in a position to get cute with me.”

She slapped him. She sighed and glanced to ‘Choly, then strolled around from terminal to terminal, initiating print orders. She began collecting things and humming a bit between her commentary. Some of what she gathered included holotapes.

“My sexual involvement with robotics isn’t perverse in the slightest, I’ll have you know. It’s out of necessity.” She sniffed. “X-Seed flesh can’t subsume metal and plastics. We were deeply, romantically embroiled, at that. Helen was... _will be_ perfect again.”

“And ‘X-Squared flesh’?” He wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by it, but the very thought of it invoked a nebulous dread sentence.

“I figured you’d take the dose I gave you. I told the truth about that one. There’s no withdrawals. If you’re suffering from something after taking it, it’s not the squared. It’s whatever those Vault-Tec loonies did to you. Sticks, on the other hand? Your luck was particularly shit this go-around, hmm? You didn’t count on your Root to stick this time.”

She gathered up various stacks of the continuous feed stock she’d been accumulating, into a printout binder.

“Caught up in the euphoria of the X-Seed, I’m feeling both generous and accomplished. I’m going to let you escape with all your fingers and toes. After today, I don’t want to see either of your faces ever again. Do you understand me? But before I turn you loose again, I have to ask you, Carey: Did you get lucky? Could you put your hands on leftover Psycho when you killed those raiders, or did you have to cook up your own with two hundred year old morphine?”

His face drooped, a little too literally.

“Hubflower can be reduced into a new form of Gregory’s salts.”

She brightened a tic.

“I was hoping you’d teach me _something_ before you left.” She approached ‘Choly and set the hefty pair of binders in his lap. “The MKEXCEED papers. The formulas for X-Cell-Root and X-Cell-Squared are here, along with a number of other things I’m sure you wanted. You’ll need to get versed in the precursors for Root in particular. If this is what it takes to get rid of Sticks once and for all, it’s not worth my time! I’m washing my hands of him. He’s all yours, Carey. I can’t think of a worse fate for him. Consider it a thank you, though. For giving Olivia and I exactly what we wanted. This is still my base. They’re still my enlisted. And in a way, we’ve still got each other. Who knows. Maybe I’ll reinstall Helen’s AI into a Sentry Bot this time. She’s had stranger bodies.”

She rubbed at her full head of hair, giving Helen’s next form genuine thought for some time before slouching and pacing more.

“This is a soaking lot of chaos. I haven’t had enlisted on base in a hundred eighty years. My head’s _pounding_ for them all. Now, you two need to leave. Before I change my mind that you _can_.”

Angel mechanically hoisted up ‘Choly with two tendrils, keeping the third on Sticks’s right arm. ‘Choly stuffed the papers into Angel’s storage, in disbelief that it got in his hands so soon and with so little resistance once it came down to it. In the moment, he didn’t even care whether the binders contained blank paper and junk holotapes: they symbolized her letting them go free. On their way out, ‘Choly used one hand to stretch his face to jeer at her, not even really considering in the impulse that it might stay that way.

By the time he let go, he was very, very grateful she hadn’t seen it.

On their way to the North gate, Olivia came on the loudspeaker, to address her soldiers. While they’re walking, they saw that the Rad-I-Canned shell would have been fired from the mortars of a Deenwood Sentry Bot, but since origin and target had matched, the shell detonated in situ and destroyed the Sentry. She’d already sent a few Unfolded to work on disabling the Klutz whistle.

“Welcome back to base, soldiers. Going forward today, you will no longer require the services of Sticks to obtain what is rightfully yours as descendants of Deenwood’s enlisted. It was wrong of me to require you to broker with this manipulative cretin. I will no longer be doing business with him, I promise you. Our first order of business is to rebuild after our little crisis of identity. I know tonight took a lot out of everyone. Help yourselves to as many MREs as you like tonight. You’ve earned it. We will regroup at oh six hundred. We keep military hours. Makes the robots happy, so it makes me happy. Habits die hard.”

“They... ruined a golf course _and_ a military base for this.”

‘Choly frowned at a loss. It was soaking in that Sticks’s stunt cost him all the prewar amenities of the Deenwood Compound, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but blame himself all the more for being such a patsy.

A battered, one-tendriled Gutsy sprinted up to them with a parcel.

“Madam General says you two are indecent. I’ve been sent along with fresh laundered uniforms. For you, Colonel Carey, and for you, _Private_ Sticks.”

Its gruff, holographic voice ground the title like it didn’t even want to say that much. Angel received the uniforms when the two men sputtered over the remark.

“Apologies that we can’t stay longer,” it started, to keep them all moving. “I’ll miss you!”

“You’re the one heart of gold in that bunch, DIA Angel,” it called off after it.

“Well I suppose she’ll just have to find herself another SFC!” Sticks rang out with sarcastic indignity, like it was some mark of distinction.

“God, consider yourself lucky she didn’t _court-martial_ you,” ‘Choly jabbed, unsure whether his enlisted rank was in seriousness.

_Bozhemoy, either ply her, or avoid her altogether, is right..._

‘Choly had so many things to say to Sticks, but in the sunrise twilight, the words simply wouldn’t come. He didn’t have the mental acuity to argue or make accusations, and only barely had the physical constitution to focus on balancing jockey-style atop Angel. Sticks was too tired to make conversation, either, fortunately. Once they’d turned down the straight shot North to Rourke Bridge, Angel let him go, and they walked onward in relative silence, stuffed up in the claustrophobic ambiance of the Merrimack echoing through the Highlands ruins.

Once they got inside Glenn Johnny’s, Sticks carried ‘Choly upstairs on his back, and Angel powered off its thruster downstairs for the first time in forever. The two stripped and slumped into bed in their underwear, too battered to care about their relative filth.

‘Choly permitted Sticks to spoon him, but mostly to share body heat.


	31. Ice Cream Scoops (Ch64)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was the way it was.
> 
> TWs: joint trauma, disrespectful behaviors involving disability.

_Click, click, click-click._

In a bathrobe and little else, Melancholy sat at the opened secretary desk in the chill upstairs room of Glenn Johnny’s, opening and closing the lid of a Mentats tin. He supposed the rich dirt-like smell wasn’t coffee, after all, when he saw Angel through the glassless window at the balcony, busied with laundry.

He wondered what sort of water arrangement the place must have, since he had noticed a space where a bathtub must have been when he went to the bathroom upon first waking. The toilet worked fine, but he didn’t try the sink. He’d washed his hands and face, and knocked the dirt and blood from the hair that could directly touch his face, with the tin of water Angel had left for him alongside a bottle of Melancholia. The bathroom only had an extending shaving mirror in tact. For some reason, relying on it for general maintenance elicited the specific grudge at the unlikelihood that he’d ever use one for its intended purpose. He wondered if as a ghoul Sticks even needed to shave anymore, or if it simply came down to the fact Sticks might use mirrors so little that he’d never bothered to replace the larger one.

So much of the ice cream parlor had stayed so well kept, and it didn’t surprise him a bit. Sticks had worked at Concord’s Hardware Town before the war, after all. Despite a general disconnect from technological savvy, the ghoul absolutely knew his way around plumbing and electrical alike. The ghoul had truly taken the time to edit the space for function and comfort.

'Choly’s companions had both risen before him, likely long before. He didn’t want to bother Angel or Sticks, but did hope one crossed paths with him soon without his having to call after either. He disliked the thought his clinginess might echo his chem exposure and activities from the day before, and shoved the thought away. The next he looked down, he realized he wasn’t clicking the tin anymore. It was hard to say at what point he’d set it down and begun clicking his finger joints back and forth to similar effect.

He popped off the cap with the Nuka World bottle-letter opener from one of the drawers, and worked at his tart, cherry-flavored breakfast. Brushing out his hair and pinning it up took tremendous effort because his hands wouldn’t behave. Sooner than fuss with the unwashed mess, he tucked up a half-managed bun into the ushanka. He couldn’t tell whether he directed his bitterness more toward the source of his constitution or to the previous owner of the hat. He’d promised Angel not a week ago that he’d try to go as clean as he could, to divorce his condition from his withdrawals. But, the aching remained constant, and it was evident his motor skills and energy levels had only worsened.

It didn’t even matter whether he’d got the recipe right. Could this stuff be considered Melancholia proper, without opiates? Sticks had already provided him access to Med-X, of which 'Choly wasn’t a fan. But the Melancholy’s salts, that was a hubeine mix, not a codeine mix...

It should’ve distressed him, that such digital mistreatment didn’t hurt significantly more than the arthritis to which the cryogenesis had inured him.

Every part of him knew only aches.

He drew the Merrick Index from its pigeonhole and fingered through the Addenda, to reference the hubeine dosage he’d calculated before. He hadn’t exactly tested his calculations, though, because his one trial had been _intended_ to be lethal. Hubeine had no easy, safe tests to confirm it posited more than a poison, either, no matter the dose. The few Lexington raiders left standing half a day after dosing them were dead on their feet. He struggled to locate the page he’d scrawled leading up to the Berserk Syringe demonstration, to cross-reference his initial collected thoughts against the frenetic vapor of going to town on a faction that had collectively abused him far too long.

Even with the Mentats he’d found in the desk, he could hardly think straight.

Oh, how he wanted little more than a cup of coffee.

He massaged at the fur lining of an ear flap of the cap, spaced out again a ways.

The MKEXCEED Papers weren’t on the desk with the Merrick and history textbook. He assumed Angel just hadn’t had the time to organize such effects just yet. Or maybe, for all he knew, it was acting the part of the DIA Handy as always, and protecting once confidential documents.

It dawned on him, that he still had his transcript of The Unfolding in a draft on his Pip-Boy’s holotape. He fidgeted with the device, still nursing his meal replacement. First he noticed the radio stations that the thing could pick up: The one he’d listened to on his way to Lowell had changed its branding, but retained its frequency. He tuned to WXXX. A mellow ambient orchestral piece smoothed out the morning air in the room. Then he flipped tabs over to what started as an unexpectedly coherent account of events.

A few paragraphs into reading over his rough notes, he flinched. He’d drafted directly onto his decryption holotape. He twisted about from his seat, to confirm Sticks didn’t possess a working terminal. It’d have to live where it lay until he could find one, in order to copy it to a different holotape.

He let himself unclench, admiring the view of the river bend and falls out the East windows. The thought of becoming a reclusive writer had some appeal. Maybe if they were to live here together, he could get Sticks to help him locate a terminal and set it up upstairs. He hadn’t really needed one before. A typewriter had suited him fine. The terminal at 103 Old North Lane belonged to Sticks. But now, viable paper stock seemed a very rare commodity. Reusable media felt more reliable and easier to manage, though they required on hand equipment...

Accurate, embellished, or entirely fictional, any narrative seemed a bit beyond him still. With a sigh, he resumed skimming the Merrick. He could hear the ghoul downstairs, and the robot humming softly to itself outside. Maybe the two of them would hear the radio and know he was awake, and come investigate...

His soul was too tired to summon any rightful frustration with the _entrepreneur_.

Clarimentin. He flipped back to the page containing pharmaceutical data on the antibiotic. Nothing in its entry indicated encouraged use alongside high doses of Rad-X. Cross-referencing Rad-X yielded the same nothing, not so much as mention of _any_ antibiotics. He leafed through the book both ways for some time, with mounting exasperation to blame the Mentats for not helping enough with even rudimentary research comprehension.

He sat up with a start when something was set beside him on the desk, then wilted in nuisance with himself when he recognized a hot mug of black coffee.

“I haven’t got any cream, and I figure you’d rather have _sugar_ than sugar.” Sticks leaned down to peck his forehead, and rub at his back. He smiled, pronouncing the split in the side of his upper lip. “Going to assume I’m not the only one with sticky digits. That’s a Deenwood percolator down there.”

“I did smell coffee! Ohhh, thank you.” He soothed his hands wrapping them around the mug for a minute. Then, he turned to give the shying ghoul a good morning kiss to his cheek, then a thank you kiss to his lips. “I take my coffee black. I’m lactose intolerant, anyway.”

“Mm. Oh. Sorry for not waiting up on you to eat. I figured you’d make your breakfast order when you got up. You looked like you could really use the rest, and I was starving. I don’t mind cooking twice. Let me get something whipped up for you. What’ll it be? Tato hash? A nice big ‘Lurk omelette? Maybe some of my channel rat sausages--better than it sounds, I swear.” He leaned in to whisper. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a working waffle maker.”

“Oh, Mister Sticks.” ‘Choly wheezed, picking up on the husky playfulness. He picked up the mug to blow on it and sip as much as he could manage. “Really, don’t trouble yourself if you’ve already eaten. I’ve got my Melancholia.”

The ghoul shoved down making a weird face.

“What, that mouthwash stuff again? ...If that’s all you think you can stomach right now, suit yourself. Far be it for me to force fresh grub on you. Just let me know when you really do get hungry, and I’ll gladly oblige.” He tugged at the ushanka. “You really like that thing, huh.”

Having noticed the two had awoken, Angel came in to strip the now vacant bedding to wash next.

“Mister Carey has subsisted on that meal replacement for years at a time. If he were malnourished, the Pip-Boy’s health diagnostics would say so!”

‘Choly glanced to the Pip-Boy, and checked the vitals tab despite having avoided it all morning up until that point. He grunted as he glazed over the enumeration of what ailed him.

“Of all the things wrong with me, malnourishment is not one of them.” After downing half the coffee, he softened. “...And yes. Yes, I do. It’s... a comfort.”

“It’s yours, then. You’ll need it in a few weeks, that’s for sure. But for now...”

Sticks pulled off the ushanka and set it on the desk, to admire ‘Choly’s mess of hair. He leaned in, to see if ‘Choly would permit another kiss.

“I am most impressed with the craftsmanship Miss Bones put into your coat, Sir!” the Mister Handy continued through the open balcony door. “All the blood and grime just wipes right off, even after it’s dried overnight!”

“She must have had DWR on hand,” Sticks surmised, his posture squaring as he bristled. “They occasionally scav military materials like that. There’s a lot in Historic, and not just in Boott Mills.”

“Oh, do I ever commend her on that degree of attention! You’ll find I’ve got the blood out of all your effects. I always say, I know my way around a blood stain, laundry machines or no! Ha-Hah! But to have others looking out for your appearances as well! I’m not the only one keeping you looking Sharp, Sir.”

“Yes, well.” Sticks went out onto the balcony to pluck ‘Choly’s orthotics from the clothes line. He tossed them down on the bare mattress, and patted at the end of the bed with enthusiastic impatience. “Here, your braces and stuff are dry. Allow me to help you get nicely laced up for the day. Slumping over the desk like that can’t be good for your... anything.”

‘Choly shouldered off the robe into the chair as he stood, and permitted Sticks to help him into the orthotic corset. The ghoul was wearing the faded yellow longshoreman’s garb again, and he assumed Sticks typically favored it. He stiffened at the ghoul’s grazing touches, only to force himself to relax. He had to remind himself Bones wasn’t the one helping him dress. He expected Sticks to feel him up all the while, but beyond scrutinizing the evenness of lacing tension, such sensuality didn’t bubble up. Then Sticks knelt to help him with his wrists and ankles as well, with the gentleness of changing third degree dressings, and the chemist couldn’t help but wonder if he were just in the moment victim to wishful perverse thoughts.

Everyone seemed to have gained so much from the Battle of Lowell, except him. His efforts entitled him to a reward, right? The value of things didn’t feel like they measured up to what Sticks had achieved. Small and decrepit. For it all, he could only show some fancy garments, a book printing not even a full day old yet, and a repairman ghoul who couldn’t see people as anything but tools. Maybe a repairman could fix him.

“I do wish I had a wheelchair here.” His eyes remained on the open Merrick. “I’ll admit the stairs have been an obstacle.”

Sticks didn’t look up from putting socks on 'Choly’s feet.

“The only local place that might have one is underwater in crab country, unfortunately. Having one wouldn’t help you with the stairs, anyway.”

“I’m all right, being upstairs-bound, I suppose.” ‘Choly couldn’t help but frown somehow. He let the ghoul lace his ankle braces for him while he put his Pip-Boy back on. “There’s a bathroom on this floor, a balcony, and a bed... And you and Angel are both here to bring me anything I might need.”

 _All these things... but no chem setup_.

“Angel...” ‘Choly gave it an uncertain wave. “Angel, bring over the binders Olivia gave you. I want to confirm they’re genuine.”

“...Of course, Sir,” it finally replied after a pause. When it complied, he got to skimming. Pensive, Angel’s tendrils curled up to its chassis. “A bit heavy for reading material so early, though, isn’t it?”

He leafed through the continuous stock and squirmed back into his robe, not bothering to unfurl the accordion-like mess. He nodded softly to himself stopping intermittently from resultant goosepimples, noting what details added up in his mind to legitimate federal-grade documentation. He straight up shivered understanding that this printout disclosed both MKEXCEL and MKEXCEED, seemingly in full.

Sticks yanked the chair back from the desk, with ‘Choly in it. He gave the dizzied chemist an intense glare.

“You can mess with all that later. Stop focusing on all the serious stuff for a minute. Nobody’s making you work. Relax already. I can’t handle all this moping. Let me... sweep you off your feet!”

Unexpected and unsolicited, Sticks scooped him up. 'Choly let out a tense bubbling laugh when the ghoul teetered slightly, seeming to sway a bit in the string instrumental on the Pip-Boy. He worried less that Sticks might drop him, and more that he hadn’t had any say in being picked up. He curled his face into the small of Sticks’s neck, and decided to pay little mind to where the ghoul might carry him. But then, the ghoul tossed his gun harness in his lap and took him downstairs, and he questioned whether it had been a fumbled attempt at romance at all.

Sticks set him down at a booth near the front door, to grab both their shoes. He handed ‘Choly his oxfords with a grin, then finished putting on his own boots.

“Let’s get out of Angel’s hair, huh?” Sticks swatted ‘Choly’s hands away from his shoes when he struggled longer than it took Sticks to put his own shoes on. “Just outside for a bit. Some fresh air.”

“I suppose if you can trust Angel to keep your house.” ‘Choly tied the robe tighter. “Shouldn’t I... get dressed, though?”

“Nonsense! It’s just you and me for at least a mile, in every direction. And it’s a nice, brisk day. You don’t need to worry your pretty little mess of a head, 'Choly. Here!” He handed ‘Choly his cane from the umbrella stand, and held up a wood from the golf bag ‘Choly had brought. “A little protection, between this and your... whatever-it-is gun.”

He frowned, then laughed.

“A wedge might serve you better, if you’re intending to hit things that aren’t golf balls.”

“Which one’s the--” ‘Choly got up and took the wood from him to put it back, then gave him another. “Ah, yes. The wedge.”

“Really doesn’t make all that much difference, since loft isn’t a factor,” he admitted, fastening his holster with a sneering grin. “I just don’t want you fucking up a perfectly good driver.”

“I’m hurt!” Sticks grabbed ‘Choly around the middle with his free hand, to dip him back a bit. “You think I’d damage an antique such as this?”

“Take it outside, Romeo.”

“Outside it is, then.”

Sticks held the door with a chivalrous bow. Once it shut, he trailed after ‘Choly and swept him into dancing in swirling tune with the radio across the balding green that was once the southernmost tail of the Heritage State Park. He slung the cane and club both to his back, so he could use both hands to guide ‘Choly. The two devolved into fumbling giggling in the crisp, clear autumn day. Sticks hoisted him up onto the concrete amphitheater stage, and joined him, swaying into a slow dance. ‘Choly melted into Sticks’s chest, listening to his heavy heartbeat. Eventually, he fell back into his worries as usual.

“Jacob,” he asked, cheek firmly against Sticks, “what happened this week was a good thing, right? Things are safe and stable now?”

As if on cue, the radio shifted over to play ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’ Sticks recoiled, but he insisted it was fine to leave it when ‘Choly went to just turn off a song the ghoul disliked. The ghoul pulled them both right back into dancing.

“Laverne used to run that broadcast,” Sticks said, distantly. “She loved songs that kept the apocalypse burning strong. They fed her Eyebot surveillance or something. But maybe she really _is_ signing off once and for all.”

‘Choly had no idea what he was on about, but didn’t want to press him. All he could think of, in mentioning the Rust Devils’ leader, was Olivia, and how she’d produced decades upon decades of confidential military pharmacological research just like that. He hadn’t even gotten to any of it yet, but he had read the phrase ‘Defense Intelligence Agency’ too many times in skimming for him not to expect to find those files too, if he just looked. The DIA could no longer argue over its own existence, or concern itself with the grey area where civilian, military, and federal life overlapped.

_What does it even mean, to be a war criminal these days, if there’s no one to try you?_

“Of course it was a good thing,” Sticks finally barked with zeal. “It was a _great_ thing! You can’t possibly assume total accountability for something as overarching as yesterday, C.O. or not. You can’t blame yourself for the whole shit show any more than I can blame _myself_. Your lot’s just you and me now. Now come on.” He shook him a bit and smiled down at him insistently. “Get out of your head already and cut loose. You can be present. I know you can.”

‘Choly surrendered with resistance. He wanted to start into Sticks for costing him Deenwood’s luxuries, but it struck him dumb to recognize that the ghoul had saved them both from the incomprehensible inhumanity of General Olivia Francis of the Deenwood Pharm Corps.

“I don’t need all those prewar amenities on base for my happily ever after. I’m slow dancing with the only important prewar relic I could ever need.”

Sticks’s grin grew dopey and squinted, and he stroked at the small of ‘Choly’s back.

“Makes two of us. We might’ve lost pretty much everything, but I’ve still got you. If that’s all right with you, anyway.”

“Only if it’s okay that I’ve got you.”

“I’m grateful, in a way, that you never told me you were into me before everything fell apart. All things considered, I would’ve spent two hundred years lacking you, and hurting even worse than I already have for it.”

‘Choly glanced up shyly before pressing his cheek back against him with a small grin.

“So we really are partners in crime, then.”

‘Choly murmured, comforted by the prospect of stability. He barely kept himself from reminding Sticks that he couldn’t remember whether he’d made ‘Choly’s heart flutter then, like it did now.

“For real, this time.”

They got lost in the music, in the euphoria of each other. Having Sticks to lean on, ‘Choly didn’t have to worry about his balance, or his constitution. Before ‘Choly could make sense of it, Sticks had already scooped him up and sprinted for the front door. A flurry of Merrilurks shrieked fast toward them. Sticks flung ‘Choly down on top of a booth table to free his hands to board up the door with a series of pulley mechanisms. Heaving, the ghoul took him up the stairs to the bed. He slammed the stairwell door shut and latched it, then watched from the East-facing windows in intent dread.


	32. More Than You Can Chew (Ch65)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter I've written in easily two years. Have fun.
> 
> TW: PTSD triggers, recollection of suggested dubcon and noncon, implied possibility of sexual assault, body horror, alcohol, chems, manipulation, toxic dynamics, one step past friskiness, trenchant self-deprecation.

> “Memory is all we are. Moments and feelings, captured in amber, strung on filaments of reason. Take a man's memories and you take all of him. Chip away a memory at a time and you destroy him as surely as if you hammered nail after nail through his skull.” -- Mark Lawrence, _King of Thorns_

“Something kicked the ‘Lurks up bad.”

Sticks did not look away from the window. As if to punctuate things, the ghoul closed up all but one of the shutters. He pulled up a chair to watch from that half-shuttered window, and motioned to keep it at a hush.

“You’re boarding up like a hurricane.”

‘Choly couldn’t finger what about it to object _to_. A groan gurgled from him when he rolled onto his back in the bed. Sticks had him all out of sorts just from so flippantly throwing him down. He disliked the reality that the orthotics seemed to diminish the severity of dislocations, but not prevent them altogether like they had when he’d first begun relying upon them. His back had slipped out for sure. To imagine it any worse made his head scream.

“What’s all the fuss, gentlemen?”

Angel, too, returned inside at a caution.

“Stay quiet and stay put. If I can figure out why they’re pissed, I can figure out how much we need to worry.”

The aquatic shrieking and viscous pounding coming from street level tried ‘Choly’s composure. He watched Sticks from the bed for a bit. He’d stay put, all right. Like he had a choice. _  
_

The ghoul rose, eyes out the window whenever possible, to kneel beside the bed. He fished out a bolt-action hunting rifle and a canvas bag that sounded like it contained bullets, and sat again to alternate between continuing to watch the esplanade and prepping an ammo clip. He deteriorated from anxiousness to confusion.

Various electrical sounds accompanied grinding whines which ‘Choly struggled to place. Then the distinctive hissing beam of a plasma gun rang out, and he couldn’t not shoot up on the mattress. When glass shattered, he thought at first to windows downstairs, but recalled the restaurant seemed to have long since lacked them in favor of fortification. An outcry rang indistinguishable from stress or bravado.

Soon things went near completely quiet outside. Sticks loosened up and glanced to ‘Choly with a strange wistfulness. He stood and pulled ‘Choly into a fierce hug. Kneeling, in a wet-eyed stupor 'Choly mirrored him.

“You’re alive...” The ghoul developed a broken, excited laugh, pressing his goateed chin into ‘Choly’s scalp. “You’re really _alive_...”

With a rapping on the door downstairs, a relieved sigh and a sniff broke Sticks away. Whimsy lit up his dark eyes. He slipped the cane off his back and returned it, in favor of the rifle. He patted ‘Choly on the upper arm and rubbed at it a bit with a small, aside smile.

“Stay up here and take it easy a spell.”

The ghoul went to lift the hatch door, descending downstairs. Shortly after, the chemist could faintly make out conversation. Left out, ‘Choly mustered himself to rise, and he approached the window to assess for himself what had happened.

“They-- Ah!” About to broadcast its eavesdropping, Angel instead sublimated with anticipation. “We have company for dinner. Forgive me, Sir, but I must go help them prepare the kitchen and dining area!”

‘Choly frowned and started to object, but the words were slower than either the ghoul or the robot. A dull, ringing pressure haloed his head. He grabbed his now-cold remainder of coffee, to sit and finish it off in resignation. He opened the shutters all the way, and pushed the window fully open, to observe and attempt to listen in. Once he’d exhausted the caffeine, he set his mug on the sill, and in alternations watched and worked to reset the joints which troubled him most, with an especial focus on the wrist and arm that had gone under him when tossed. Basic field medic training or no, he hoped he never had cause to grow accustomed to the sensation of palpating--and subsequently, popping--his _own_ misaligned joints.

Wielding one-handed chainsaws and notched machetes, several dozen misshapen hunters shucked Merrilurk meat on the esplanade. The Furriers. Devils. Whatever they had become, ‘Choly had not seen them in clear light such as this until now. He watched as they reclaimed their rope darts from around the Merrilurks’ limbs, and pried meat from the aquatic creatures’ exoskeletons. He tried to crack his neck several times, only succeeding in worsening it before eventually breaking even again. He wondered if things with exoskeletons, lacking bones altogether, struggled as he did. He wondered, too, whether the hunters had to reset joints in any particular way.

They still wore masks, and draped, knotted garments, but they also had incorporated khaki elements of military garb, and reclaimed bits of their repurposed sheet metal armor where it still fit. He spotted several ‘familiar faces,’ but refused to speculate whether he knew any of them after yesterday. They had, he reminded himself, received no less than two doses of X-Cell-Root--hadn’t that risked them sluicing into other people with whom they’d come into physical contact?

“Bozhemoy, what a way to lose my fucking virginity.”

Forty-three years old a virgin. (Those two centuries on ice didn’t count, he hoped.) He couldn’t ever have begun to have fantasized the week’s debauchery in which he’d gotten embroiled. Surely, something as awkward as that, his memory couldn’t screw that up. Yet, Sticks had thought ‘Choly’s apparent perversion contradicted his declared inexperience. First drifting off to the Unfolding and its chaotic delirium of limbs, his mind readily snagged up in the things he and Sticks had done together. The row house had comforted and delighted him, but he couldn’t shake the possibility that Sticks had used his knowledge of ‘Choly’s anatomy to manipulate the course of events that had transpired in this room the day before. He’d never desired a penetrative act of any sort, let alone sought one. What had gotten into him?

 _Besides him_ , he sneered.

It was so unlike him. ...Or was it? He disliked not knowing in what sex acts the Unfolding may have included him. It left him even more queasy than it had at the time, the oft mentioned fact he’d blacked out amid it all.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to become presentable. He put on his reinforced gloves and persisted again in brushing out his hair and pinning it up properly. He browsed the drawer Sticks had allotted him for clothes storage. Just about every garment he owned carried negative associations. He wished to never wear a military uniform again in his life, but he did miss the sense of support of the high leather martial collar he’d lost in Voire. He rubbed at his shorn nape, grousing at the radiating nausea from high up in his neck. Just seeing the golfing attire set him sideways. He stomped out onto the balcony to pluck down the Vault suit. He disliked it least. Besides the puncture tear, it had remained in good condition despite all it had endured.

Putting his shoes back on went more smoothly. He refastened his holster and harness also, taking after Sticks’s uncertainty whether to appear downstairs unarmed. He’d hesitated while he dressed, but retrieved his coat from the balcony also, to pair with the ushanka. The sensation of fur soothed him too much, for him not to. He routed in his brain for a more correct word. _Bekesha-tulup_. As he nodded, his cheek burrowed against the wide turned collar.

He noticed the clawfoot tub on the balcony, filled with laundry suds and bed sheets. He pulled his coat tighter together, and frowned, unable to ignore what the soiled linens represented.

Driven by a sense of abandonment and isolation, he hobbled from the gambreled half of the upper story and to the end of the gabled half, where he proceeded to lift the hatch door and tackle the stairs with a heavy reliance on his cane. His heart wanted to wait for Angel or Sticks to come check on him, to escort him down, but his soul needed him to do it himself. _Slow and deliberate_ , he repeated with every step. The braces improved his odds, but not his confidence. The sharp, meaty sweetness of seafood affronted him before he even rounded the turn of the stairway.

The next he knew, he had spilled down into the employees’ mudroom. His cane clattered off somewhere nearby. As he managed to right himself in the floor, he got an eyeful of the state of his left leg. Thankfully, he had not had any solid food yet. His guts knotted up, and he gnashed his teeth so fiercely his jaw popped. His knee had dislocated at an angle he thought not possible of a leg. With ginger but imprecise meddling, he seethed, but did not think it broken. Broken. His eyes whipped to his Pip-Boy screen. It came a temporary relief, that it had not cracked.

At least his neck had gone back right again.

He pushed himself along at a slumping crawl until he could reach his cane, by the shaft of which he leveraged two-fisted to stand. On his feet, he smoothed down his hat and coat. Then, favoring his left leg for hours to come, he rounded the stairs into the kitchen.

Sticks rushed about tending to half a dozen workspaces. The ghoul donned the iconic white shirt, black apron and slacks, and bowtie of a prewar ice cream parlor uniform. The clatters, sizzles, and gurgles of food prep drowned out the chemist’s giggle. He needed the minor humor to offset the slight that neither the ghoul nor his robot had noticed his fall. He called out for Angel and approached Sticks. Before his mouth could open, he received a basket of dark-colored fries. The ghoul added a freshly griddle-toasted long bun with a single slice of grilled tato, and ladled chopped sauce-seared marbled green-red shellfish into it. With a squirt of chunky sauce to top it off, Sticks tossed the bottle back into its chilled cubby to resume food prep.

“Now go on, shoo. Enjoy it while it’s hot and get out from underfoot. Once I’ve got everyone plated up, I’ll be along. If you want something to drink, Angel’s piloting the watering hole.”

'Choly sniffed at the briny, tart Merr-Roll-Lurk and stood there. His nausea waned. Though unlike the Jacob he knew, he didn’t question why Sticks had turned away the chance for Angel to cook in his place.

He nearly processed a generic disappointment that the place couldn’t serve a proper Nuka-Float without fresh milk for ice cream, but an airy wheeze came from behind him, paired with the sound of Angel’s thruster. He teetered as he looked back in the front-facing area which had once served ice cream. Behind the Mister Handy rushing up to him with an Ice-Cold Nuka-Cherry in pincer, he recognized the latch door of a walk-in freezer. Angel uncapped the beverage and offered both parts to him. He pocketed the cap before recognizing the bottle was for him, too.

“With how fiercely you’re shivering, I suggest you find a fireside seat, Mister Carey. I’m grateful you thought to dress warmly.”

‘Choly nodded, suddenly numb in the moment.

“Angel, did you choose to serve drinks? Did Sticks convince you not to cook?”

The Handy laughed sweetly.

“Mister Hawthorne is the one who required convincing to permit that I help! He is most enthusiastic a grill cook. Oh, Sir. I could hardly resist the opportunity to assist in hosting such a soirée.” With his murmured vague appeasement, it took his cane in one pincer to guide him with the other two at his sides. “Allow me to help you to a table. You seem a bit unsteady today.”

“A bit?” was all he could manage as they passed through the double-action swing doors into the dining area.

His ears rang. Their guests had removed their masks to eat, slinging them either off the side of their head or at their waist. He no longer felt so overdressed, the more he skimmed the restaurant. It felt more like a mess hall than a dining room, with its patrons bearing arms and a mishmash of military garb. Before now, he hadn’t really got the chance to admire the heavily embroidered leather work or extensive varied use of fur lining. Their dress fused design and utility.

Angel settled him at a two-seat table beside the fireplace in the back room, then returned to its post. A large figure on their knees fed the fire. He said hello to the unmistakable back of Reese’s head.

He pocketed his gloves to eat barehanded. It only took a bite for him to melt in the texture of warm bread. He knew he’d regret it later, but he craved inclusion, and he had to know why Sticks had made such a fuss for having the recipe. The longer he held the mouthful, the more the savory, bright sauce overtook him. The chopped long-grain meat contrasted the starchy tato. He let out a soft shocked moan. How could something like a Merrilurk taste good?

The figure stood with delight. Two patches of shoulder-length, irregularly blended indigo-ruby hair streaked the front of each ear, but they otherwise appeared mostly unchanged since their last encounter.

“So glad to share the legendary Glenn Johnny experience with you, Melancholy! May I join you?”

He held a hand over his mouth to cover his useless hurried chewing, and nodded when he couldn’t verbally welcome them. The goliath sat.

“Didn’t expect your lot out this way so soon after, well. You seemed to be settling in on base anyway.”

“It’s all accordingly.” They flashed him that lemniscate grin. “I’m sure Sticks has already told you our plans in the coming months.”

“Everybody keeps assuming I know the first thing that’s going on,” he blurted out, before taking another bite. “No, he’s been too busy in the kitchen to tell me anything.” _Or help me when I fall down the stairs_. He set down his food to grouse at his knee under the table with one hand, and gesticulate at the hunter with the other. “You, uh. Still go by Reese?”

“I’m confirmed Tiresias now.” They barked a laugh. “Everything’s gone far better than any of us anticipated, I assure you. The General’s plan would Unfold all the Rust Devils together, which pitted us against each other and likely wiped out both. But yours combined the Furriers and the Devils, which pits us against _her_ , should the need arise. She steeply underestimated you, Colonel.”

Angel brought Tiresias another pair of Merr-Rolls-Lurk, which they accepted graciously. ‘Choly’s mind wadded up like cotton, trying to process just how badly he’d failed in eradicating the Devils--he had only worsened matters exponentially. The two ate together quietly for a bit before the hunter spoke again.

“We were afoot to reclaim battle salvage, but the opportunity to quarry after a clutch of Merrilurks appeared when we rounded the bridge between Back Central and Historic. We swam after them. The fight began in the water, and we drove them up onto land. We cornered them on the shore front outside this restaurant, and knew our fortune. We delivered this bounty to Glenn Johnny’s--to _Sticks_ \--by sheer chance. There he is!” they bellowed. “It’s like pulling teeth to get you to serve anymore! We’re all blessed you could not turn down so much peak season ‘Lurk.”

“You got me.” The ghoul sat at a row of tables nearby. “The hatchlings aren’t the firmest meat, but they make the best rolls.”

‘Choly made eye contact with him, looked down at his food, then back to him. His mouth felt thick.

The ghoul picked up one of the two rolls he’d served himself. Despite the boisterousness, Sticks had sat close enough they could hear one another.

“So, how do you like it?”

“Surprisingly edible. It _is_ edible, right?” The whole room broke into laughter, and his ears rang. “Is it bad I’m more blown away by the bread? Fresh, griddle-toasted bread? How did you even have this much bread at the ready?”

“You can freeze dough, you know.” Sticks took a bite. “You really have been starved since you came out, haven’t you?”

“Angel’s been cooking from prepackaged prewar holdovers and foraged produce. It’s... it’s made do. Does its best. The kinds of ingredient compromises it’s got to make these days don’t necessarily lend well to the recipes it knows. It can’t taste or smell, so substitutions are total guesswork. Things just aren’t its fault!” His ears burned. “Not that it really matters whether Angel’s a good cook or not. You know my gut’s got other plans. That I’ve got to have my Melancholia.”

“You’ve been _eating_ prewar food?” Sticks’s face screwed up at the thought. “No wonder your insides are a mess.”

‘Choly’s face ran hot.

“Say, Tiresias... You called these rolls _legendary_. How’d you know this place once made a big deal about them?”

“This establishment was a hub even decades after the Great War. Survivors from all around the Merrimack kept it running as a crux of Lowell hospitality. Over time, the locals either died or Deenwood conscripted them. Sticks eventually inherited Glenn Johnny’s, as one of the last people who cared to keep it running. He’s done such a marvelous job of it, wouldn’t you say? But he hasn’t held regular hours in decades!”

Sticks jeered playfully at the ribbing.

“Yeah, yeah, trained by the best. Let it alone. Nobody’ll ever make ‘em like Phil, but I know my rolls are good enough you’ll get ‘em no matter when I step in the kitchen.”

“My heart warms to know you still pride your work.”

‘Choly picked at his tato fries, which had sopped any sauce which dribbled off the roll. Sticks cemented business arrangements by cooking. That’s all this was, right? Everyone involved was simply communicating their goals. Everyone... Was he consorting with raiders again?

“So... what’s become of Laverne’s offer?” Sticks started with a low lyric. “Seeing as I held up my end, I think I deserve that level of compensation. Of course, there’s also the little matter of my extensive hospitality...”

Tiresias frowned, and took the time to finish off their third roll to form a thought.

“The General’s requisitioned the Towers as an extension of Deenwood, and declared it a restricted building, even from the Unfolded. We couldn’t get your reward out of there before she instated security measures. We’ve only got access to what we’ve reclaimed from Back Central. Lucky, you found a working Pip-Boy, yes?”

“I am _not_ just gonna give Sticks a Mark-V, Tiresias. Prove to me he’s done more than _cook us dinner_.”

The Unfolded that had spoken held incredulity in their knobby, asymmetrical musculature.

“I earned one fair n’ square, and you know this. Russian dressing’s just the icing on this cake.”

‘Choly took notice that every single Unfolded he could see from his seat wore one model of Pip-Boy or another. These raiders operated with more than some vague structure, even before. Some Nuka-Cherry washed down his dread, then another two swigs sought to drown it. His scalp prickled when Tiresias raised a hand to insist that Sticks stay.

“Don’t quit us. Your arrangement with the Rust Devils stands fulfilled,” they insisted, in something of a speech, to Lucky’s disgust. “You upheld your end of all bargains. Outfitting the Furriers with fresh ballistics weave. Guaranteeing the Rust Devils could breach Deenwood and get at its robotics. And orchestrating that the Furriers kept the Devils on point, so that the General could bestow the Unfolding upon the lot of us. And of course, opening up your kitchen today. The ‘Lurk boil is both a tradition for the parts of us that have lived here in some capacity for many decades, and a virgin experience for the newest pieces of us. It rings true as a celebration of the Enlisted continuing to harbor ties with you, through Colonel Melancholy.”

‘Choly sputtered, speechless. Surely, Sticks hadn’t promised them anything without consulting him first!

“On account of you, and in spite of you,” Tiresias continued, “we present to you a Mark-V Pip-Boy. It’s not the Mark-VI prototype promised you, but we can hope it compares to your expectations.”

“I get you bent over backwards for one of these things.” Lucky grunted, retaining a firm grip on his knapsack. “I get it, but I don’t respect it. What monetary value could you possibly give me for it? These things are damn near priceless now, and you know it."

“You’re wringing me dry here, but I’ve got about three hundred caps to my name.”

“Three hundred!” he snorted. “I was thinking more three _thousand!_ ”

Not even Lucky’s superior could budge him on this. But did he still acknowledge his C.O.?

“I’ll close whatever value gap Sticks lacks,” ‘Choly said, reflexively.

Sticks reciprocated his stare with poorly-stifled indignity.

Lucky clicked his tongue.

“If you’re offering to trade your Four for my Five, nuh uh. No way. Nobody’s ever happy to get stuck with one of those.”

With a gasp ‘Choly flinched into coddling the device on his wrist. He’d often compared the Mark-IV he’d procured to escape Vault 111′s hydraulic door, to the Mark-III Deenwood had assigned him during active duty... but he couldn’t speculate what order of magnitude must separate a Mark-IV from a Mark-V, to to elicit such distaste in Lucky. For his mannerisms, he supposed this Unfolded must’ve at least partly been Felix. The black cat mask at his waist confirmed it for him.

“I’d never be without one myself. Something else. What about. What about--” Context stuffed his lungs full, when the option came to him. As the words spilled from him, he prayed the offer distracted them from Angel. “ _Whataboutmysackofgolfclubs?_ ”

“Come again?”

Lucky let out a pointed chuckle as he sat on the ledge of the table.

“Am I... highballing?”

“Pssh. No. No. I just remember, you were an avid golfer. Can’t believe you traveled all this way with ‘em. Lowballing something _fierce_. Even if you’ve got a full set, that’s only, what, six hundred caps? Try again, champ.”

‘Choly glanced to Tiresias and Sticks, coming up empty. What could he possibly have that Lucky would want? He gulped and motioned for Lucky to get in close. He ineffectually swallowed, and whispered in his ear,

“I don’t have any X-Cell-Root, but do you have any interest in a couple doses of regular X-Cell? The kind that existed prewar?”

Lucky straightened and wobbled on his mismatched feet to think, donning his mask for emphasis.

“Also not worth the couple grand of my asking price, but _definitely_ more interesting of what you’ve tossed in the pot so far. Keep going.”

“I traded all my caps for ammo yesterday.” His ears burned again. “What... what about prewar bonds? Or my gold and silver?”

“Screw paper! Buuuut...” Lucky raised an eyebrow. “How much gold and silver we talking?”

“ _I’ll get Angel to fetch it for me_. Now, I can prove I’ve got what I’m offering, but I realize you haven’t even shown me you’ve got a spare Mark-V to begin with.”

Lucky’s eyes bittered up. He slapped ‘Choly in the middle of the back. ‘Choly couldn’t hide his queasiness.

“I’ll be right back.”

‘Choly jerked back when a mask appeared inches from his face. Before he knew it, an Unfolded with far too long a torso to be healthy, and far too many arms, draped herself across his lap, coiled behind the chair, and draped herself around his shoulders dreamily.

“C.O. Melancholy,” the skeleton cooed, “you didn’t greet me, so I must greet you.”

“Hh hello, Bones. Is it still--” The Nuka-Cherry had started settling his flesh heavier, and his head slurred a bit.

“--Certainly.” She set his hat in his lap to pet his hair. “You look to have withstood triplicate Unfoldings in tact. Even before yesterday, I would have adored to explore you in full...” She sniffed his hair.

Stifling a shiver resulted in an even more intense shiver.

“I, I really apPREciate your talents and gifts.” He couldn’t quite get a grip on the hands in his hair, or along his sides, or down his front, or-- He squeaked. “I’m sure the alterations you made to my coat dID A LOt for my surviving yesterday. Could yOU _NOT_ \--”

“Oh, you’re most welcome.” She only paused enough to remove her mask and rub her cheek against his. “Even without a full uniform, you still very much look the part of a commanding officer. Tiresias has been instated our Sergeant First Class. Lucky and I have joint duty over the outfit’s quartermastery. If he can dote tech and weapons upon you, I can certainly dress you... _and undress you,_ as the case may be.”

To emphasize her words, she began to unzip his Vault suit, and slipped a hand against his clavicle.

Sticks whipped to his feet with a snarl.

“ _GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!_ ” He was stymied by the eyes of everyone in the room, ‘Choly’s included. Softly, he backpedaled, “He doesn’t want you like that. _...You’re upsetting him..._ ”

“I’ll only accept such an accusation from him.” Bones hugged him closer. She pressed her smeared, nearly double-wide mouth sweetly to his face. “It’s not true, is it? Tell him.”

Every surface of ‘Choly’s mouth stuck to itself, and he self-inflicted a scowl as he leveraged a hand between her face and his.

“He means to say, the only attraction I’m capable of is debasing. Fetishistic.”

“A purely carnal arrangement is more than pleasing a thought. Oh! Unless...” She rose up on the back of the chair to get sing-songy with the ghoul. “You don’t wish to share him?”

Exasperated, the ghoul pushed the remainder of his food to the nearest Unfolded, who accepted it with enthusiasm. He slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms to stew in silence.

‘Choly flushed so deeply in mortification that his face may as well have bruised.

“Knock that off.” Lucky returned inside, oblivious to the conversation temperature. “We’re busy here.”

He shoved Bones out of ‘Choly’s lap. She kept her grip on the back of the chair to right herself. With a harrumph, she leaned in to kiss ‘Choly on the face one more time before lousing in one of the wall booths.

He pulled up a chair and set the requested device in his lap. His three shoulders skewed when he saw on which wrist ‘Choly wore his. Smoothing at his peppery chin-length hair, produced an _ahem_ and gestured that he’d proved he could deliver.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Sticks rose expectantly with an awed smile. “I’m humbled.”

“Angel,” ‘Choly called, thinking that by now it surely would have produced itself. “Angel come here.” When it finally did, he asked it at a hush, “Be a dear. I need my security box. _And the two ampuoles of X-Cell_.”

Rather than demonstrate its storage compartment before them, Angel rushed off then returned with the requested items.

“Will you be needing anything else at present, Sir? I’m caught in something time-sensitive.”

“No. Thank y--” It had already left again. “What gives?”

Before he could even really survey its contents, Lucky had already grabbed the box from him to look it over himself. Tiresias shriek-laughed at his impatience, boxing ‘Choly’s ears in the small enclosed space.

“I’ve gotta ask, Melancholy. Ain’t even October yet. Why the _fuck_ were you singing a Christmas carol last night?”

“Not to me,” he defended a little too quickly. He glanced over his shoulder at Bones pouting. “Not to me, it isn’t. The lyrics swept me up in the moment. I guess I didn’t think I remembered it all.”

Lucky nodded thoughtfully, and placed the Mark-V on the table.

“So a Five for your precious metals, two amps, your golf clubs,” he glanced knowingly to Sticks, “and three hundred caps from the ol’ ghoul.”

When ‘Choly nodded, Lucky poured the box into his knapsack with a chortle, then tossed it down on the table with just the cash in it. Sticks briefly excused himself, only to plop down a Glenn Johnny’s doggie bag on the table with an emphatic jingling and a frown. Without hesitation or gratitude, the ghoul snatched up the Pip-Boy and got to trying to latch it on. Pocketing the bag, the black cat jumped to make him sit back down, and stripped back the leather wrist to point out the various required hookups to the glove’s ports. Unable to observe the process with Lucky between the two, ‘Choly hemmed and shoved a few fries in his mouth, then picked at his own Pip-Boy amid conversation.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” ‘Choly asked Tiresias. “You’ve _all_ got Pip-Boys. They’re all different models. I recognize a few Mark-III’s, and the Mark-IV’s like mine... and know now that the grey ones are Mark-V’s. But there’s a few I don’t think are any of those. Just how many unreleased models did RobCo have in development?”

“A few, I suppose. Never really poked around back there.” They pulled inside themselves a moment, and put their witch mask back on to recompose. “The General’s model is a 3000-Series, Mark-V. We have 3000-Series, from Mark-I to the prototype Mark-V’s. The bombs interrupted RobCo’s projects, of course.”

“You’re mostly seeing a spectrum of remastered junk parts.” Lucky didn’t look up from his rigging effort. Sticks squirmed a bit, pinned in place by someone occupied only with guaranteeing Sticks didn’t mess it up. “Only a few of us have Pip-Boys 100% factory-issue. Even a mix of 2000-Series parts, where we could line ‘em up. More than I’d like, but they get the job done. Fives, though. The Fives might not have got fully finished, but they’re a helluva lot better than the Fours. Slated to hit the market in 2079.”

“This one has got a deck, right? Is it ambidextrous?”

“Duh. Not that it matters for Sticks. And it’s got _two_. RobCo was working on fusing their terminal word processors with the, ah, _personal information processor._ The pips. The 3000-V was the first foray into that undertaking. Full data entry capacity, with a processor for each deck. Once the company got it streamlined enough to market, they put all their attention on refining all the bells and whistles on their next prototype.”

When Lucky finally sat back, ‘Choly awed to see just how quickly Sticks’s Mark-V ticked away at its boot sequence. The screen’s slimmer font displayed easily twice the lines of text at once as the Mark-IV, and even from afar looked easier on the eyes. He pursed his lips and focused on his health page, and left Sticks to get acquainted with his new toy.

As Lucky spoke next, ‘Choly’s attention paled in recognition _. Systemic CFC-based connective tissue damage. Antigen dysregulation. Chronic arthritis and arthralgia. Syncope. Neurological damage, with memory lacunae. Shell-shock. Addictions to Med-X, Calmex, and Mentats._ Every chem he’d taken the night before. He hadn’t taken anything all day. Not since the Addictol. Something inside him broke, lacking the cognitive capacity to discern from the diagnostics what, if not Addictol, Olivia could have possibly tricked him into dosing himself with. The Pip-Boy sure as fuck couldn’t seem to tell him.

“Mmh, hmm. Melancholy. You mentioned memory... I have to ask you. I could be adjusting better to my Unfolding. Confirmation only did so much. Talking to you might help me with that, if that’s all right with you.” When ‘Choly didn’t shut him out, Lucky scooted his chair to sit with him and Tiresias. “It’s the Gen’s fault Lowell’s devoid of what you’d call normal life.”

Sticks groaned, snapping ‘Choly back to reality a ways.

“Are you really gonna start from the War, onward?”

“I guess so.” Lucky shrank a bit, stuck in his head and feeling sorry for it. “That’s the trouble of it. I feel like I _remember_ that far back. That amounts to something, right?” Tiresias’s nod spurred him on. “I’ve remembered a lot of things lately I don’t think I should. Memories tend to start to muddy, the more times they survive the Unfolding. Doesn’t sit easy inside me.”

“Go on.” Tiresias rubbed at the cheek of their mask. “Let it manifest.”

“The Gen paid locals to volunteer for chem trials. Over time, when people didn’t come home, the settlements started distrusting her. Didn’t take long before she couldn’t get enough volunteers for whatever she was doing week to week. So she started abducting people. Called it getting _drafted_. But, that’s all common history fact. We all remember bits of the Lowellites we used to be. And most of us remember how important this restaurant’s always been to us. What’s got me all screwed up is, I can’t quite place exactly why my gut instinct’s to distrust you and fly to anger. Part of me doesn’t just remember reporting to you before the War. Part of me... wait.” Lucky looked to Sticks, and pointed like he had the ghoul’s name on the tip of his tongue. “Glenn Johnny. John. Johnny. No, Johh... honey. I was Jahani.”

‘Choly’s stomach clenched up hard enough he could taste seafood in his sinuses. His lips drew back tight.

“This doesn’t appear to be proper dinner conversation,” Sticks joked. He flew to stand behind ‘Choly, and gripped his shoulders square in reassurance. He then held up his left arm. “Shouldn’t we be discussing the in’s and out’s of how to use one of these things! Huh! Huh!”

“Jahani. Heydar Jahani.” ‘Choly couldn’t tell if he was staring at him or through him. Sticks slouched and let go when his persuasion failed. “You had a reason to approach me specifically about this?”

“So the memory _is_ a sharp one.” Lucky crumpled inside, though the affirmation intensified him. “Heydar Jahani, huh. You got into the Vault. I had to make my own. Why was that, again?”

“Are you asking me, why you avoided dying in Vault 111? You really _are_ Lucky. I mean, look at me.” Tears froze him in place. His eyes glazed over as he slipped out of the present. “How the hell did you get from Sanctuary Hills to Lowell?”

“I... I don’t know. It... was hell trying to wait out the fallout. I was so sick, even before. I returned to base, hoping to scav chems. Not to be sick anymore. But the Gen had already risen to General, and she was only interested in giving me more chems that no one had taken before. I had no choice but to trust her. She always... sounded like she demanded no one die from the chems she gave us. Like she could boss around the universe. If we became something else, like she became something else, it wasn’t killing us. She could make peace with just about anything short of losing a test subject. So we did. And we all became something completely new, too.”

‘Choly didn’t stop just because he’d drawn blood digging his fingernail along his chin scar.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. What, are you going to read me, too? Or do you expect me to apologize for what I did to you over two hundred years ago?”

“Read you?” Lucky had to process that ‘Choly had interpreted his narrative as a measure of the General’s character. He began to scoff and sniff. “You were my C.O. for three years. And you were like a husk, every time you dosed us. You check out a lot, don’t you? When you don’t like that you _like_ doing things?”

Lucky lunged at him and snarled. Bones sprang back between them, only for ‘Choly to shove her back out of reflex.

“Lucky.” Tiresias didn’t need to stand to reach and seize the black cat’s wrist from where they sat. They demanded his eye contact. “Unlatch before you get snagged up in indisputable insubordination. It’s bristling enough, for you to go against your S.F.C., but another entirely to slander your colonel. You sought guidance in him, not accusations. You lose control of the manifestation.”

“The manifestation is the _only_ thing I’m in control of.” He hissed at Tiresias and struggled against their grip, only to keep snipping at ‘Choly. “The manifestation is my only clarity. Did you _ever_ have a conscience! _That’s_ why just the thought of you pisses me off! Your roommate promised me CM, but _you_ never followed through! It’s _your fault_ I got Psycho-sick. It’s _your fault_ I had to be Psycho-sick all those years in my bomb shelter. And it’s _your fault_ I’m even still kicking today.”

“You still have a Psycho addiction, despite being a part of so many communal X-Cell-Root doses?“ ‘Choly’s face couldn’t turn down any deeper in his deer-eyed shock. “Does that mean that you... all...?”

“Why the fuck do you care now when you didn’t care when you dosed me over and over! I can’t be the only one here you fucked over, either!”

“It’s not his fault if I couldn’t make good on that offer in time. If I had known you were still alive, I would’ve tried to find you some Psycho and returned with it. Considering what happened to me, you can understand why I wouldn’t think you made it.” Lucky’s head whipped up to glare wild at Sticks. “Besides! What good would a couple doses have done you holed up in the ground for years?”

‘Choly was too far gone to defend the ghoul, and the ghoul was too dumbstruck he’d even slipped up in the first place.

“No conscience, Melancholy! No scruples, Sticks! Is that why they kept you on! Promoted you! They only commissioned the broken and the insane! I don’t know if I believe in karma, but she definitely shat on the two of you! _FUCK!!_ ” He wagged a vitriolic finger at Sticks. “At least you aren’t my sergeant anymore.”

“LUCKY.” The witch roared, standing to yank the cat forward with enough force it likely dislocated his side-shoulder. “I will tear you limb from LIMB if you do not unlatch his instant. Ground this, or I put you in the ground!”

“I... I like doing things.” At a dusty hush, ‘Choly couldn’t focus his eyes. His hands tucked themselves into his hat, to feel of the fur.

“Ohh, Sir. Sir.” Angel swayed back into the room, and used its tendrils to address him. “Sir, I have something that requires your _immediate attention_ for a yet undetermined duration.”

“Christ, you have the worst timing in the world.” Sticks helped Angel help ‘Choly stand. “What’s so pressing you didn’t interrupt sooner?”

“I’m afraid that’s not to your pay grade, _Private_ ,” it snubbed, concerned only with ushering its owner out of the dining hall and upstairs.

“I enjoy it,” ‘Choly said again hobbling back through the kitchen.

The wraith of uncertainty cut furrows in his face in directions skin shouldn’t form natural creases.

He found himself with Angel on the covered balcony. He could still hear the Unfolded arguing beneath them, but he could also hear the inebriated handful that had decided to fool around on the pavilion stage to entertain themselves. The Mister Handy urged him over to the bathtub, over which hung a string of lights. The scent of soap sobered him. His jaw slacked.

“I know how badly you’ve--”

“Poshol ty! Nev’yebenno v rot! --Vanna s penoy.”

“Do stop cursing at me and enjoy it while the water’s hot, Mister Carey.”

He screwed up his face and began to strip like his life depended on it. Angel collected his effects as they came off, nearly worried he’d fling something off the ledge.

“Angel, I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he lauded, standing nude before the tub. “This is the only reward I have wanted from the moment I thawed out.”

“As I was saying, I know.”

He slid into the tub and enveloped himself in the dense, fragrant suds. In an instant, his stresses deliquesced, and he forgot even his time or place. The suds stung his chin scrape, but he didn’t care. He tipped his head back into the water and loosed his mess of hair from its pins, then stretched out with a groaning sigh. The tears ran again, indistinguishable from the bathwater.

“I think I wouldn't have been driven to murder if I’d only had a bubble bath.”

Glass shattered downstairs. ‘Choly didn’t so much as flinch, relaxed to the point he could forget in the moment that anything could be wrong. Angel fretted and paced all about the balcony.

“Ohh, I do wish I had the confidence to break up the impending bar fight, but they’ve inherited those scoundrels’ robotics prowess, haven’t they? Ohhh... that will be such a mess come morning. Surely, Mister Hawthorne can handle this. It’s his establishment, after all...”

“Ogromnoe spasibo, moy Angel. Ya khochu byt’ s toboy vsegda.”

“You’re intoxicated, Sir. But I love you, too.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

“You haven’t been moderating me.”

“There are other more serious slips in verbiage these days than people knowing a military chemist is bilingual.”


	33. Baggage (Ch66)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How we carry ourselves.
> 
> TWs: Joint trauma, body horror, nudity, disability-flavored deprecation/catastrophization.
> 
> A/N: Thanks for joining me for the reposted Second Instar.

The last of the suds fizzled, leaving ‘Choly submerged in cold opalescent bathwater. A similar surfactant quality popped his daze, and he shifted in an attempt to sit up in the tub. The fluid’s inertia instead sloshed him further back against the enameled iron. He grunted with a squint as some water got up his nose. When he opened his eyes again, he saw the real trouble hindering his exit. His joints had fallen as slack as his lucidity. He felt like a marionette without a yoke. His stomach shuddered for him, as the slow continued sway of the water, once more settling, tugged at his arms half afloat.

So it was possible, after all, to relax too much.

He lay there for some time longer, barely able to string together the thought to devise some plan. His state left him reeling beyond the rationality that he might call out for help. Angel would worry itself apart to see him like this, and Sticks might very well toss him out in the Merrimack, beyond salvage. Besides, they hadn’t come to his rescue when he fell hours earlier, and he managed to get himself to the dinner table and back up here with nearly a nonzero amount of assistance. He could do this himself. He needed to learn how to do it himself--for his own safety, in the event something estranged others from coming to his aid.

He prayed this _whatever-was-happening_ wouldn’t endure. But at least, he could in the moment assess his limitations.

His musculature and tendons remained connected and functioning, but necessitated an entirely other manner of physiological prescience: to not simply manage his own proprioception, but to apply it forward like some telekinetic mess of connective tissue cat’s cradle. It took every scrape of mental faculty to process and focus to where he could grasp himself by the wrists, by the elbows, by the shoulders, and so on, to grip each errant joint in turn, and to administer the force and torsion necessary to right the dysfunction. The bangs and bruises from the citywide chaos of the day before only served to compound how his throbbing body resisted total exhaustion.

He pushed himself up by both hands off the side of the tub, to stand. Instead, he spilled over the side and across the concrete flooring of the balcony. Flat on his back and defeated, he flopped back with a wheeze and stared up into the joints of the patio cover. The string lights burned a reverse image in his eyelids when he shut them.

He could hear rummaging inside through the open door yards away. His Stygian eyes fluttered open. The sight of twin mounted radstag heads hanging over the balcony door choked him.

“--Angel?”

The appellation came out far weaker and more broken than he expected.

When Angel didn’t respond, he bristled, and once more underwent the slow, quiet, deliberate process of summoning himself together. He found the Mister Handy had set out on the workhorse nearest to the tub for him a towel, his robe, and his glasses. He managed the loosest sense of drying off, and draped the towel around his neck and shoulders; then, he put on his glasses, and tied off the robe. Unsure exactly _whom_ had come upstairs, let alone what--or whom--they sought, he grabbed an awl from the workbench and edged nearer the door frame on bated breath.

In the dark of the upstairs room, he could only make out the edges of lime split lighting in contrast to the figure’s lit Pip-Boy screen. He shivered at a prickle of draft. The white uniform with black apron. Symmetrical, if not keloid-riddled, features. Sticks rifled through the secretary as though it didn’t belong to him. Unsure how to even begin to ask what the ghoul could’ve needed, 'Choly meekly closed the door behind himself.

“Need more light?”

Sticks jerked up to look at him.

“...Of course, of course.” He loosed a rumbling, agitated chuckle. “It’s all right, pal, that you, ah. Sealed that negotiation for me like that. It’s all right, because... because we’re _partners_. Isn’t that right? Partners.”

The ghoul rose to flip the switch for the three overhead lamps strung across the roof beams. Right off, ‘Choly noticed the ghoul’s black eye, and a ripped dishevelment marred with bits of fresh blood. ‘Choly chewed at his lower lip.

“Partners... Yeah.” He swallowed, and rubbed at his forearm with his free hand. He’d only been trying to help. “Are you okay? Could we-- talk? We need to talk. If-- if that’s all right.”

The juxtaposition of the encounter startled Sticks to a cautious desperation.

“Everything’s all right between us, right?”

“Of course. It’s not that. ...I need to sit.” He walked over to the secretary and took the desk chair for himself. Sticks sat on the corner of the bed. “I know I fucked up a lot yesterday, but I think I may have fucked up something _else_.”

He set the awl down on the desk, and swiveled to face Sticks. Picking what he felt he could afford to potentially damage further, he took hold of his left calf and knee, and purposefully loosed it again with a hollow chain of cartilaginous pops. His breath stuttered as he dangled his leg by the foot, but he kept his cool as he gave the ghoul a sardonic glance.

Sticks looked to him agape, with unfiltered, nauseated fascination.

“The cryogenic chemicals damaged my joints and skin, but I’ve managed for months until today. This is... something completely else.” He worked at resetting his knee as he continued, stifling jolts of revulsion. “I mean, even if it is the condition progressing, why all at once? And why-- _this_? It would be too much of a coincidence if the X-Cell Squared weren’t related... or the inhaler. That fucking inhaler.” He seethed, cupping his face in hand. “I was so tired when she handed me that stuff last night and told me it was Addictol. Fuck me, I’m stupid--”

“--You’re not stupid. She just knows how to trick people. ...Do you really suppose she gave you something that wasn’t Addictol?”

“I checked my Pip-Boy’s health diagnostics earlier. I’m still in withdrawals from chems I took prior to her giving me the inhaler. I could show you, if I-- if I knew where it was.”

“Hey now. I’m sure it’s safe. It’s just you, me, and the robot now.”

‘Choly toweled at his hair again, only to swivel around and look in the secretary for himself. He produced the Walden Drugs catalogue from one slot, and thumbed through it in search of specific pages.

“My current set of orthotics aren’t doing it. The officer’s gloves help, but that’s just my hands. The ankle and wrist braces, the postural corset--they’re just for sprains and such, not full dislocations. Neither you nor Angel seemed to notice earlier, but I fell down the stairs. I’m struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I’m a liability as I am. You called me _wet cardboard_ the other day, and it just keeps feeling more true.“ He slapped the catalogue down in his lap, and shut his eyes to rub at them under his glasses with thumb and forefinger. “Look, I’m bad at asking for help. So: This is me asking for help. I know you don’t have to help me and that it’s probably prudent to ditch me... but I hope having me in your life means more to you than that.”

He held out the booklet turned to the relevant page. Sticks leaned to take it, and looked it over, uncurling the front half to inspect the cover, then back to the items. He face slacked in earnest as he flipped over to a locations listing.

“The closest one was Nashua, you said? Lexington didn’t have them?”

“I lived in the Lexington Walden’s stock room for months before it went up in flames. What I’ve got is the best I could find. Only the warehouses that stocked hospitals would have what’s on that page. They’re surgical grade. ...The Merrimack swallowed up the Lowell General Hospital, didn’t it?“ He slumped, unable to recall the building in the skyline as they’d passed through Downtown Historic. “You have no idea how badly I want to stay put. I love it here, with the bathtub, with the bed, with the _you_... But...” The idea of it eroded him to trembling. “I know it’s a long way. Especially on foot. But I can’t do it with just Angel. Especially since it’s out of ammo.”

“No, no. If you need this, then we need this. We needed a good reason to blow this place for a while. The Unfolded may seem to want to continue respecting the history this place has, Glenn Johnny’s included... But Lowell as a whole? They weren’t out here on exterminator duty, Mindy. They were doing recon on the locks and channels equipment. For the General.”

That nearly knocked ‘Choly out of the chair. When it clicked, he paled numb.

“The fuck do they want to-- Oh. Oh no.”

“Yeah. I’m not happy about it, either. Bare minimum, it’s gonna be like when a company puts a new building in. Except you and I both know that wont just be, what was it? Skunks? But worst case scenario? I don’t even want to begin to speculate what they plan to do with the river.” Weary, Sticks circled back to the catalogue. “Have you got a time estimate for this little recon? How long you think it’ll take to get there, and how long you intend to stick around?”

“I’m not sure. Does it matter much? We’re in agreement that a change of scenery’s desirable.”

Sticks traced at the details on the page, distant and in deep thought.

“It’s not just a change of scenery, is the thing. It’s a change of climate. I don’t know if you realize this, but Lowell’s on the southern threshold of the Hinter... and we’re coming up on Nor’easter season. Sure, the wildlife has got all big and wild, but so’s the weather. I’ll be mostly all right up there, being a ghoul, provided our shelter’s sound. But you? And the Handy?” The ghoul waved off his own train of thought. “You know what. Don’t sweat it. We’ll manage this. My experience, your grey matter.”

“Nor’easters? You’re worried over a _chance_ there’s one this year? I’ve weathered dozens of ice storms in my life. Even a few hurricanes. And you’re a native Yankee, so you’ve got to have, too. We’ll be _fine_.” Denial wheezed from his nostrils, his lips pressed together tight. “I know it will put us even further from New Hampshire, but I do have one obligation first. I have to go to Billerica, to escort someone to the Concord suburbs. I should’ve taken them to safety before getting here, but I also didn’t know what I was getting myself into. They’ve been waiting for the Lowell conflict to blow over, and like me, they’re the last survivor of their location. I would have had to go check on them soon even if we stayed here.”

The ghoul squinted at him.

“Hazarding you’re confident they couldn’t just travel there themselves.”

“It shouldn’t take long at all!” ‘Choly threw his hands up. “One day, tops. We just need to get from here to there to Sanctuary Hills. It’s a Mister Handy. I _couldn’t_ have brought it to Lowell and just left it. And it just feels too many kinds of wrong to just leave it all alone there, when it could be among some normal people again for once.”

Sticks weighed the various aspects about the proposition that didn’t sit well.

“If you’re having trouble just walking, do you suppose you’ll be in any condition to ride Angel down?”

“I, I don’t know.” 'Choly wilted into begging that left his companion too tongue-tied to object all the while. “We’ll figure that out, too! And you know what? This trip to Nashua isn’t just for me. Partners. I meant it, that we’re in this together. The long haul. The Lexington Walden was a smaller location, and even it had a sizable chem lab arrangement, with a large cache of stock. The Nashua Walden was classified as a full regional warehouse: it shipped to a dozen locations in the New England Commonwealth. Olivia gave me all those military chem formulas. That is what you were looking for just now, weren’t you? I’m as interested as you, to see what all I can make from a chem cookbook culminated from two hundred years of research.”

Sticks sat up at once and looked to him knowingly. He swatted his knee with the catalogue.

“Now that, I like to hear! What initiative! We’ll start out for all this tomorrow. You hear me? Let’s get to gathering things up tonight. We can do a once-over in the morning to make sure we’re not leaving anything important behind.”

“You’re not exhausted after all that stuff downstairs? After cooking for thirty?”

‘Choly felt even more pathetic than he sounded. He hadn’t even lifted a finger with a thing, yet was this worn out.

“We’ll go until we pass out, at least. We’ll sleep better that way. Hey Angel!” Sticks called out for the robot. “Set down that broom and dustpan for a bit and help us out up here!” He chortled excitedly. “Ohh, bless it all. You want to cook chems for me. And you want to wear _this_ for me. I could kiss you.”

Something between a grimace and a grin tore ‘Choly’s face.

“You... you _could_ kiss me, you know.”

“You’re not wrong.” Sticks swept him up in both arms and plopped him back on the freshly made bed, only narrowly taking the care to be delicate with him. He leaned down over the top of him, a hand to each side of ‘Choly’s shoulders, to smooch him. “We’re great together. You know that, right?”

‘Choly squinted awkwardly, and reached to turn off the screen light on Sticks’s Pip-Boy. He pulled him into another kiss, and looked him in the eye with adoration.

“Always have been.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve no intention of leaving this place without first cleaning up after such horrid house guests.” Angel scoffed in frustration as it appeared upstairs, oblivious to the pair making out on the bed. “And I hate to be the bearer of such information, but if I’m to carry Mister Carey, we must pack as light as possible. It’s not to guilt you, Sir, but even with the refinements you’ve made to my hydraulics, the added weight does result in a higher fuel expenditure. My ammunition isn’t the only thing running low after this week.”

“So we’ll make more frequent refueling pit stops for you, buddy,” Sticks mumbled over his shoulder, still pecking all over ‘Choly’s face and neck and shoulders where he could get at it. The little creep soaked it all up, squirming like it tickled. “You just worry about carrying Carey here. Anything heavy I need to bring, I’ll carry myself.”

‘Choly grabbed his face to get his attention.

“Hey. Maybe Angel could carry all the supplies, and _you_ carry me? I’ve got to weigh less than that Flamer did, and you hefted that thing all over town without hardly ever setting it down.”

The ghoul melted into dopey chuff.

“Mindy. Babe. You do not weigh less than a Flamer.” He smiled, heavy lidded. “You’re on something, though. Sounds like it might work. I can guarantee you, that everything I’m bringing totally weighs less than you. So if I carry you, and Angel carries everything I’m bringing, that’s less strain on its flame.”

“Can I entrust you with my most precious cargo, Mister Hawthorne?”

He planted one more forceful smooch on ‘Choly before meeting gazes in a dreamy determination.

“He’s my prize, too, ya know.”


End file.
